


Mittens

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat, Cats, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, all the cats cause fuck you is why, au where mcu is not run by cowards, canon corrective, character being compared to a cat, character owning a cat, implied Winter Soldier/Natasha Romanov, in that civil war is negated and non canon, ok just one cat, references to the winter soldier engaging in consensual sex with another hydra operative, sam wilson is a smartass, so many cats, tony stark grows the fuck up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29129163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe
Summary: Canon-corrective treatment of the time post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Negates and obviates Civil War. The kind of story we could have gotten, except the people running the MCU are fucking cowards. Oh, and there's a lot of gay sex in this, because the main characters are gay and/or bisexual men who like to have sex with other men. My Russian is not good, but neither is the MCU's so I feel that just enhances the authenticity of the cinematic atmosphere.This piece was originally titled "Awakening," and thematically refers to the Pushkin poem. I wrote it for some event forever ago, but did not release it in association with said event for reasons who shall remain nameless (yeah you, cat hater). I have attempted to stay as close to canon as absolutely possible, while essentially rewriting the entire core story arcs of Steve, Bucky, and Tony, so...haha...hope you didn't love Civil War. Anyway, I like it. There are some sad bits and happy bits, and I think the characters are faithfully represented. It's kinda longish for a single piece, so I broke it into tiny little snack-sized chapters. Enjoy!YEAH I SAID COWARDS FEIGE COME AT ME BRO
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 33
Kudos: 104





	1. Awakening

**Пробуждение**

Мечты, мечты,

Где ваша сладость

Где ты, где ты,

Ночная радость

Исчезнул он,

Веселый сон,

И одинокий

Во тьме глубокой

Я пробужден.

Кругом постели

Немая ночь.

Вмиг охладели,

Вмиг улетели

Толпою прочь

Любви мечтанья.

Еще полна

Душа желанья

И ловит сна

Воспоминанья.

Любовь, любовь,

Внемли моленья:

Пошли мне вновь

Свои виденья,

И поутру,

Вновь упоенный,

Пускай умру

Непробужденный.

—Aleksandr Pushkin, Awakening

The sky hangs dark and heavy, above a bleak and barren waste. A land swept white with snow, where mountains cut like icy teeth into the horizon. Here the weary soldier wanders, silent and alone. Before him, the chasm splits the earth from east to west. His footsteps lurch and stagger, and blood pours from his side.

With his final breath, he wrenches out the knife. It falls from his frozen hand and is swallowed in the chasm, the yawning maw of death, open wide to claim its own. The cold sinks deep into his body, freezes his lungs and dulls his mind. His heartbeat slows and stills. Overhead, a red star pierces the black vault of the sky.

He wakes up gasping, swallowing deep, desperate breaths into his frostbitten lungs. Trembling, he turns onto his side on the cold, bare marble, and wraps his arms more tightly around his body. He is so cold. Always cold. But the cold no longer numbs the pain. The dream of death no longer soothes him.

The man on the bridge. The man who broke his mind. Left it feverish and fragmented, cracked into glittering shards and cast carelessly to the ground. His frozen fortress laid waste by a single word.

But the darkness swallowed him again. Made him hard and cold as winter. Deadly as the black bile freezing in his veins. He stretched out his hand to take him.

And when he finally had him in his grasp

_I’m with you_

His resolve shattered like ice

_To the end_

And he betrayed his mission

_Of the line_

And he fell with him into the chasm.

To die.

He meant to die. He thinks he meant to die. But the soldier cannot choose to decommission itself. He opened his eyes and not his lungs. Stretched out his hand to the white star and dragged him, bleeding and dying, from the deep, black water. He doesn’t remember walking away. He can access nothing in his indexes between observing that the target was breathing and entering the bank vault. He pushes himself up from the floor and stretches his stiff muscles, as he assesses his situation. The hostile agency will discover this place soon. What intelligence they might gather from two dead Hydra scientists and the torn and twisted remains of a chair is difficult to predict.

Assessment: Discovery is unacceptable. Destroy potential threats to security.

He activates the purge protocol and watches from a roof across the street, as flames and black smoke consume the building. City fire responders act quickly and efficiently, but fail to salvage the structure. Every inch of the place had been wired with incendiary charges, after all.

Assessment: Potential threats to security eliminated. Refer to directives.

When he tries to access his mission directives, his fractured indexes spit back nonsense and sickening noise. Pain.

Pain is all he knows, since that man spoke to him. But there is a way to end the pain. He must finish his mission. Once the objective is completed, his directives will be reset. His systems will return to their proper operation, and his mind will be calm.

Check target index.

Index corrupt.

Create target index. The man with the blue eyes and the white star.

Target index created. The man with the blue eyes and the white star.

Set priority. Alpha.

Priority set. Alpha. Kill on sight.

Assess target.

Assessment: Target presents high potential for exposure, mission failure. Reconnaissance and surveillance required. Proceed according to set parameters.

The soldier proceeds according to set parameters. The target is not difficult to find. He has left a forwarding address with his previous landlord, who does not employ proper security protocols when she is absent from her office. Target has relocated to a two-bedroom, bungalow style house in a quiet, suburban area mostly populated by elderly retirees, some less than a decade younger than himself. Target goes about his daily business with mind-numbing regularity. He is unwary and his movements are routine. Follow a simple pattern with little variation. Everywhere he goes, the hunter dogs his footsteps. At dawn, he runs. He runs miles and miles. Like a man possessed. Like he is trying to outrun death. But death follows, silent as a shadow, always close behind.

On his way to the café, he buys a copy of every major newspaper. At noon, he smiles at the girl who fills his coffee cup. He sits in an exposed position with his back to a window and scans the newspapers carefully. The soldier counts the freckles on his neck through his rifle’s scope. At 1400, he sits on a bench in a city park, opens a leather book, and makes marks in it with a pencil. The soldier passes undetected within three meters of him. For five days, the target follows this pattern, only varying between visiting the grocery store or a nearby book shop in the evening. On the sixth day, he walks to the grocery store at 1830. He comes out with a brown paper bag, stops on the sidewalk to smile and converse with two elderly men, then carries the paper bag home. At 1900, lights shine warm and yellow through the windows of his small, tidy residence.

The wolf watches from the darkness outside.

The target cooks himself supper and eats alone. He listens to irritating music made with brass horns while he washes the dishes by hand. The music shuts off. He sits in an easy chair and reads. After two hours and twelve minutes, he switches off the light and goes down the hall. The soldier circles the perimeter and waits. The bedroom lights go on. After eight minutes and ten seconds, they shut off. The house is dark and silent.

The soldier clocks precisely two hours in his covered position, then moves to breach the objective.

He knows from recon conducted while the target was out of the house, that no security system is employed. The wood fence blocks line of sight from the street and neighboring houses. Crouching by the back door, he makes quick work of the primitive pin and tumbler lock. With infinite patience, he turns the knob, one degree at a time, until he feels the door come loose. He swings it slowly open and slips inside, then eases it carefully back into its frame. Across the living room, at the corner leading to the hallway, he presses his back to the wall, listening. His augmented hearing picks up the sound of the man’s soft, even breathing through the open bedroom door.

He draws his sidearm, a black Sig Sauer P226 with a seven-inch suppressor on the muzzle, and moves down the hall, as fluid and noiseless as a hunting cat, even in heavy boots and body armor. To maintain optimal silence, he ceases respiration before he enters the bedroom. He will need to take a breath again in twenty-one minutes, to avoid discomfort. It will take less than one minute to complete the mission. Leading with the weapon, he steps into the bedroom and pauses beside the bed, gazing down into the target’s sleeping face, checking it against his indexes.

Target identity verified: Priority Alph--a. Kil-l-on-s--igh---t--

A burst of sickening static crackles through his brain and his directives spin sideways. He manages to avoid a gasp and only clutches at his head, but this small noise is enough. The target’s eyes snap open and his hand flies toward the lamp on the night table. A fraction of a second too late, the soldier lunges for him. The lamp clicks on just as his cybernetic hand closes on the man’s wrist. Unfazed by the sudden increase in illumination, he wrenches the target’s arm back and drops a knee onto his chest, pinning him with his full weight as he pushes his sidearm into his face. The target doesn’t even attempt to struggle. He looks past the gun, as if he doesn’t see it, straight up into the soldier’s eyes.

“I told you,” he says calmly. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“I’m still going to kill you,” the soldier replies, in a hoarse whisper.

The target’s gaze doesn’t falter. “If that’s what you have to do.”

The soldier rests the end of the suppressor against his forehead and pulls back the hammer with a sharp click.

“I missed you, Buck,” the target says. He closes his bright blue eyes and a tear rolls down his cheek. “I missed you so much.”

“Stop calling me that!” the soldier roars.

A wave of nausea grips him as howling chaos rends his mind. He tries in vain to keep his weapon trained on the target, but it is wrenched from his grasp. Foolishly, the man looks away to set it on the night table. A black-bladed knife flashes out. He looks back at the soldier in time to deflect the blow to the left, but not quickly enough to stop it. He gives a sharp cry as the blade plunges into his side. The soldier yanks it out and raises it to strike again. Crimson blood spills onto the white sheets.

Critical system error.

His limbs go dead. His vision goes black. Stunned and reeling, he staggers backward off the bed. He hears the knife clatter onto the wood floor as he collapses against the wall, directives obliterated and systems unresponsive.

“God…damn it,” he hears the man grunt, as he pushes himself up. “These are brand new sheets, you asshole.”

The soldier watches him through bleary, half-focused eyes. Clutching the wound, the man pushes himself to his feet. Red blood has soaked through his punctured, white a-shirt, above the waistband of his blue sweatpants. He picks up the gun from the nightstand and the knife from the floor, and carries them out of the room with him.

Nine footsteps. The sound of water running in the bathroom. A cabinet opens and shuts.

The soldier’s instincts scream at him to run while he has the chance. System unresponsive. He stares blankly down at his steel and titanium hand. The glossy, silver surface is smeared with blood.

Nine footsteps. The man enters the room again.

His undershirt is gone and he has dressed the knife wound with clean, white bandages. He goes into his closet and comes back wearing a blue t-shirt that is a different shade of blue than his blue sweatpants, then he crouches before the soldier, looking at him with something unreadable in his bright blue eyes.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Index corrupt.

“Slept?”

“Yeah, or eaten anything.”

Index corrupt.

“I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Buck,” the man sighs. He looks worried. And disappointed. Worried-disappointed. “You’ve got blood all over you. Let me get you cleaned up.”

The soldier’s lip curls at the name, but the pain is less this time. More like a snap of static electricity than a lightning bolt. The man stands up and holds out his hand. The soldier stares at it uncomprehendingly, until the man takes him by both wrists and hauls him to his feet. The sudden movement causes his muscles to spark to life. System back online. They coil tight to spring. Then the man’s warm, heavy hand comes down on the back of his neck. He goes instantly passive, arms falling slack at his sides.

Stupid fucking idiot system back offline. Good job system, hope this guy isn’t taking us somewhere to cut our throat.

System ignores him and continues to be offline.

He is aware of being guided out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the bathroom. The light is much brighter in here. It hurts his eyes. The man’s crimson-stained undershirt is in the waste bin and there is a first aid kit on the counter. The knife and sidearm are nowhere in sight. The soldier stares vacantly at a pair of reflections in the mirror, as the man washes the blood from his hands, then takes a blue towel off the rack and pats them dry. Everything is blue about this man. His towels, his clothing, the holders for soap and toothbrushes, even the shaggy mat on the floor. So much blue. All dead and flat and grey compared to the impossible blue of his eyes.

“Why can’t I kill you?” the soldier asks, looking up at him pleadingly.

“I don’t know.” The man sighs again. He sounds tired-sad this time. “Maybe you don’t really want to. Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

The soldier’s body moves to obey the man automatically.

What the fuck system? Target is not authorized to issue orders. Reassess.

Assessment: Valid directive. Order accepted. Compliance required.

“Sit,” the man says, indicating to a tall chair, arranged beside another like it at the bar-style counter.

The soldier complies, looking on indifferently as the man puts a cast-iron frying pan on the stove and starts the gas. He takes a brick of orange cheese and a round, red tomato out of the refrigerator and sets them on a board, then he removes a long knife from a wood block. The soldier’s hand flickers reflexively toward one of his own.

Assessment: Not a hostile action. Stand down.

He draws his hand back and wrings it in his metal prosthetic. The man makes slices of tomato and cheese, then spreads butter on squares of white bread. He lays a square of bread in the pan, to which he adds slices of the cheese and tomato, followed by the other square of bread. After one minute and forty-seven seconds, he flips the stack over. After one minute and nine seconds, he flips it over again. After fifty-five more seconds, he puts the golden-brown square of bread and cheese and tomato on a white square of plate and slices it in half diagonally, then sets it before the soldier. The soldier’s stomach knots with hunger, but he doesn’t move.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says numbly. “I have to.”

“You have to eat,” the man replies, pointing to the sandwich.

Order accepted. Compliance required.

The soldier reaches down and picks up a triangle-shaped section. His lip curls with disgust and he extracts the red slice of tomato, dropping it onto the plate before he takes a bite. When he looks up, there is an odd expression on the man’s face.

“What.”

“You always hated tomato,” the man says, with a self-satisfied smile.

The soldier does not smile. “You put tomato on this because you knew he hated it?”

“Yep.”

“And you were friends.”

“We _are_ friends. I know you’re still you in there, Buck.”

“Stop calling me that,” the soldier growls, squeezing his eyes shut.

The man crosses his arms. “What do you want me to call you, then? What’s your name?”

The soldier opens his eyes and tries to glare at him, but they feel heavy and gritty, like they’re full of sand, and he is struggling to get anything in focus. What is happening with this system? Why is he losing ocular function?

Assessment: Fatigue due to malnutrition, dehydration, insufficient sleep cycles.

He gives up the attempted glare and picks the tomato off the other half of the sandwich, before he stuffs it into his mouth. He barely has the energy to chew it. The man sets a glass of water in front of him and he swallows the entire contents, then another.

“Your name is Bucky,” the man says. “And you know my name, too.”

Index corrupt.

The soldier shakes his head slowly. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. It’s—”

“I don’t care!” he roars, bringing his titanium fist down in the center of his plate.

His surge of irrational rage dissipates as the plate explodes into fragments, which fly out in every direction, skittering across the counter and onto the floor. Some hit the man like shrapnel, leaving bits of tomato and smashed crockery clinging to his blue t-shirt.

He sighs patiently and turns around to pick up a roll of paper towels. “You feel better?”

“No.”

“My name is Steve,” he says, taking the soldier’s prosthetic hand and wiping it clean for a second time. “You know it’s Steve. Even if you didn’t remember, which you do, my name and face are all over the TV and papers all the time, so stop being a dick about it.”

“You’re a dick,” the soldier mumbles. His head lolls drunkenly to the side, as his indexes begin to loop and fall apart. “ _Steve_. That name is…stupid.”

The stupid dick named Steve puts his hands on his shoulders. “Come on, Buck. You need to rest.”

Order accepted. Compl—

“Get away from me,” the soldier slurs, shoving him roughly back as he staggers to his feet. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Yeah, you keep saying. Where are you going?”

“I’m…I’m going. Away.”

The soldier’s eyes roll closed and he sways. Steve catches him as he slumps forward, lifts his solid, heavy body in his arms and carries him to the sofa, where he lays him down as carefully as possible. The soldier stirs and mutters something in Russian, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Steve remains kneeling beside him for a moment, studying his pale, haggard face. He sighs again as he stands up, then he goes to his bedroom and strips the bloody linens from the bed. He treats the spots with some laundry spray and sets them to wash while he remakes the bed with clean linens. When he returns to the living room, the soldier is lying apparently unconscious on the sofa, exactly as he left him.

“Buck,” he says, leaning over to shake him gently.

The soldier jerks awake at the touch, wild-eyed and disoriented. Like a coiled serpent, he strikes out with another combat knife, which has apparently been concealed somewhere on his person. Steve catches his wrists and pins them above his head on the arm of the sofa.

“Hey, you’re ok,” he says soothingly. “I got you.”

“Steve?” the soldier pants, looking frantically into his face.

Steve’s heart leaps in his chest. “Yeah, Buck. It’s me.”

The soldier flinches and his hard scowl returns. “Let go of me.”

“Drop the knife first.”

His hand opens and the knife clatters to the floor.

“Where do you keep getting those things, anyway?” Steve asks, then he frowns. “How many weapons do you have on you?”

The soldier glares at him as defiantly as he can from hazy, drooping eyes.

“Fine,” Steve says. “I guess we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”

He drags the soldier to his feet and holds him by the holster-strap buckled across his chest. The soldier doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t cooperate, either. He simply stands there, staring into the middle distance, while Steve pats him down like an arresting police officer. He finds another knife in a concealed sheath in the right side of his holster. He drops it on the coffee table, then continues his search. When he is finished, the table has collected two more combat knives, five throwing knives, what appear to be some small stun charges, and a 9mm Glock 19, which had been strapped inside his left boot.

“That all?” he asks, with a smirk.

Assess current inventory?

The soldier doesn’t answer either question. The adrenaline from being startled awake has worn off, and he is nodding and swaying again. Steve cautiously unfastens his empty shoulder holster, which he tosses onto the the table with the weapons. He does the same with the utility belt. Then he puts his hand firmly on the back of his grudgingly compliant captive’s neck and guides him down the hall. In the bedroom, he makes the soldier stand beside the bed to examine his leather chest armor in the light from the lamp.

He hadn’t got a chance to look at it up close when they were beating the shit out of each other on the helicarrier. It’s unlike any Steve has ever seen. It has clearly been custom made to fit him, and designed with mobility and flexibility in mind. Its concealed pockets and ventilation are cleverly sewn into the streamlined structure. It has not been designed for ease of removal, however. It closes in the front with seven discrete straps, which fasten tightly across the chest and midsection. He reaches for the top closure.

“What are you doing,” the soldier demands groggily, slapping his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“You want to sleep in your armor?” Steve retorts.

“I can take it off myself,” the soldier snarls.

Steve steps back and crosses his arms. “Do it, then.”

He watches as the soldier fumbles to undo the straps and the inner zippers, then peels the thing off. He’s wearing a black, thermal undershirt beneath it, with a long sleeve on the right, and no sleeve on the left. Steve holds out his hand and the soldier puts the chest piece into it without looking at him. The leather is supple and soft to the touch, but it’s heavier than it looks. He finds that the inside is lined with Kevlar and bears ceramic inserts against bullet penetration. He goes to hang it in the closet. When he returns, he makes the soldier sit and remove his boots and socks, then stand again to strip out of his black trousers. He begins to remove his black underclothing as well, but Steve stops him.

“What now,” the soldier says listlessly, staring at the wall.

“Now, you go to bed,” Steve replies, picking the pants up off the floor. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, Buck. What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Don’t…call me that,” he half murmurs.

The dull rasp of his voice nearly breaks Steve’s heart, but he steels himself and speaks firmly. “I’m going to call you that whether you like it or not. It’s your name. Lie down.”

The soldier is unconscious the moment his body touches the mattress. Steve pulls the comforter over him, then stands there gazing down at his friend until tears blur his vision. Finally, he forces himself to turn off the light and leave the room. He goes first to the bathroom, where he retrieves the knife and suppressed pistol from the linen cabinet, then he gathers the other weapons from the coffee table. He stows them all in a concealed floorboard safe in the laundry room. Back in the kitchen, he sweeps up the remnants of the smashed plate, then he puts on a pot of coffee and checks the time. It’s going to be a long night.


	2. Reset

The sky hangs dark and heavy, above a bleak and barren waste. A land swept white with snow, where mountains cut like icy teeth into the horizon. Here the weary soldier wanders, silent and alone. Before him, the chasm splits the earth from east to west. His footsteps falter on the brink.

He puts a hand to his side, but there is no knife. No offering of blood to cast into the abyss. No jewel-red star to set aloft among the hundreds he has carried here.

He lifts his eyes to look out across the chasm, and suddenly he feels an icy shock of fear. On the other side, a figure stands. A deep-blue shadow amid the whirling white. The first intruder who has ever dared to trespass upon this solitary place.

He opens his mouth, but he has no voice to cry out above the wailing winds. The cold sinks deep into his body, freezes his lungs and dulls his mind. His heartbeat slows and stills. Overhead, a white star pierces the black vault of the sky.

He wakes up gasping, swallowing deep, desperate breaths into his frostbitten lungs. He is not so cold as usual, but the cold no longer numbs the pain. Trembling, he looks about to assess his surroundings. He is lying in a soft bed, covered by a thick, heavy, white thing that he recognizes as a down comforter.

The man on the bridge. The man who broke his mind. The stupid blue-eyed dick named Steve. He is still in Steve’s house. This is his bed. But there is no blood on the sheets.

He remembers a warm, heavy hand on his neck. Being cleaned and told to eat. His weapons taken and his clothing removed. These are all familiar, routine processes. The divergence occurs when he is made to lie down in a bed and not to stand in the cold, dark place until the snow comes to slow his mind and still his heartbeat. How had he been subdued and made to sleep? He searches for evidence of being drugged. His indexes return a grilled-cheese sandwich and one point four liters of water as his only intake in the past twenty-two hours. No evidence of sedatives in either, nor in his bloodstream.

Assessment: Steve must possess a reset code.

The fact that he had not recognized this before makes him suspect that his systems are malfunctioning on multiple levels. Unfortunately, he has no way to run a diagnostic on himself. The warmth of the down comforter is becoming stifling, so he sits up and throws it off. Not all his clothing has been removed. He is wearing his black thermal undershirt and black underwear. His skin crawls with a sudden, intense desire to strip them off and destroy them. He is considering doing so, when a noise outside the room snaps him into high alert. The door to the house. The front door. Someone has breached the premises. No. Allowed in. Steve is talking to another male individual. A handler?

Steve is not with Hydra. Reassess.

He runs the voice against his indexes and returns a hostile agent. Perhaps they think the two of them together will be enough to bring him in. A cold smile curls his lips. He would like to see them try.

Assessment: If the soldier resists, Steve will employ the reset code.

That must be why Steve detained him here. The soldier will be turned over to this nation’s authorities. The authorities will certainly decommission him. Or put him back into the cold, dark place. He would prefer death to the cold, dark place. But the soldier cannot choose to decommission itself. He has tried before. The only acceptable course of action is to complete his mission and eliminate the target, but how will he do this without risking being reset? His stomach twists with uncertainty. This is new to him and he finds the sensation interesting, but unpleasant.

Assessment: Insufficient data.

He needs more information before he will know how to proceed, and this interchange between Steve and the hostile agent could prove crucial. He switches into audio surveillance mode.

“He broke into your house,” Sam says.

“He did,” Steve replies, handing him a mug of coffee.

“And he stabbed you.”

Steve nods, taking a sip of his own.

“And now he’s sleeping in your bed.”

“Yeah, he’s been out for ten hours. Sugar? Cream?”

“No thanks, man,” Sam says. “Um. Ha ha, wow. So…I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Steve raises his eyebrows questioningly. “Missing something?”

“Yeah. Mainly, how you get from attempted murder to a sleepover.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t like that,” Steve says. “He stabbed me because he didn’t want to kill me.”

Sam stares at him. “He stabbed you because…he _didn’t_ want to kill you.”

“He freaked out and went for his knife because I took his gun,” Steve explains. “But he wasn’t going to kill me in the first place. I gave him a chance. He didn’t take it.”

“Right, right. He pulled a gun on you _and_ stabbed you. And then you let him sleep in your house.”

“Yeah, but I took away all his other weapons first. I’m not an idiot.”

Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. “Steve, listen—and I’m saying this with all the love in the world—when it comes to this dude, you are a fully qualified, card-carrying idiot.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, looking injured.

“Hoo, boy,” Sam laughs. “You do remember how he tried to kill you and everyone you know, right?”

“The Winter Soldier did those things. That wasn’t Bucky.”

“You sure there’s a difference?”

“Sam, he pulled me out of that river for a reason.”

“Yes, Steve, he pulled you out of the river. The river you fell into after he shot you a whole lot of times and beat the shit out of you. I rode to the hospital with you, man. I know how bad it was. You barely survived.”

“He’s still in there. I know he is.”

“I’m not saying he’s not in there, I’m saying what good does that do anyone if you’re dead?”

Steve’s jaw sets resolutely. “What good is my life if I’m not willing to risk it to save him?”

“Ok, well, when you put it that way, it’s just as fucking crazy. But I know you too well to try and talk you out of shit once your mind is made up. So…what’s your plan?”

“I have to find a way to get through to him. That’s all there is to it.”

“Yeah, I meant what’s your plan for keeping him from murdering a lot of people while you two work out your differences.”

“Right. That’s what I need your help with.”

“How did I know?”

“If you could cover for me at work for a little while, that would help a lot. It’s safe to assume he’s being hunted by Hydra as much as our guys now, so until something changes, I’m going to have to keep an eye on him pretty much twenty-four seven.”

“Sure,” Sam shrugs. “We’re mostly just planning the move right now, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Unless something big happens.”

“If something that big happens, I don’t think coming after Bucky will be anyone’s top priority.”

“Unless it happens and there’s no Captain America to kick its ass.”

“You don’t know him like I do, Sam. He’s not going to—”

Steve stops short and wheels about, hearing a soft footstep in the hallway. The soldier is standing there in the shadow of the wall, watching them from beneath his furrowed brow. His face, though half obscured by his mop of dark hair, seems less pale and drawn. No longer dulled by fatigue, his green eyes are fierce and clear, and there is an icy hardness in them that had been absent the night before.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says cautiously. “You remember Sam, right?”

The soldier’s eyes flicker to Sam. “You’re that bird man from the helicarrier. I thought I killed you.”

“Uh, nope. You didn’t,” Sam says. “And it’s Falcon.”

“A falcon is a bird.”

“Sam’s a friend and he’s here to help,” Steve interjects. “You don’t have to be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” the soldier replies flatly. “I could tear him apart with my bare hands.”

“Ok, good talk,” Sam says, setting down his mug. “I’d love to stay and chat some more, but I have to be literally anywhere else. See you later, Steve.”

“Bye Sam, thank you,” Steve calls after him. “Let me know if anything comes up.”

“No problem,” Sam calls back. “You do the same. Seriously.”

Steve turns back to the soldier. “You hungry? I’m about to make breakfast.”

The soldier looks him up and down, then turns and stalks into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

“Yep,” Steve sighs. “Good talk.”

He is relieved when he hears the shower start. If Bucky is bathing, he’s at least aware of himself as a human being with basic needs. In anticipation of these, Steve had left a packaged toothbrush and a new bar of soap on the counter, atop a folded towel and wash cloth. He briefly considers going to make sure his guest found the things, then decides against it. Instead, he retrieves a carton of eggs and a brown paper package of bacon from the refrigerator, and sets about cooking breakfast. He fumbles with the bread and drops a slice on the floor as he goes to put it into the toaster. When he kneels to pick it up, his hand shakes and tears burn in his eyes.

Despite his proclaimed confidence that he can get through to Bucky, the pit of his stomach is gnawed at every moment by anxiety for his friend. Lurking beneath this is the cold horror that he can hardly make himself acknowledge. The idea that Bucky Barnes might really be dead, and this man, this Winter Soldier, is only the thing that now wears his face. He rejects this outright, purges the thought from his mind, and corrects his internal gaze.

_Faith, hope, and love. The greatest of these…_

Faith is not some esoteric religious concept, but the absolute refusal to give up on what you believe in, no matter what. Hope is not an optimistic fantasy, it is the light that gives you strength to continue on in faith, despite the blackness of the night. Love is not a feeling, but an action. A conscious choice to place another above you. To give all of yourself and everything you have, freely, with no expectation of return. To falter in faith, hope, or love would be betrayal. To give up on Bucky before it cost him his last breath would be betrayal. Betrayal is so contrary to his nature as to be abhorrent. If he could betray his friend, he may as well lie down and let death take him.

He is still absorbed in these thoughts when he hears the shower shut off. The soldier emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, and vanishes quickly down the hall to the bedroom. Not quickly enough. Steve has already seen the horrible, spiderweb scars stretching out around the cybernetic prosthesis. Monuments to the hideous cruelty with which the Hydra butchers had hacked into his friend’s flesh. His chest splits with pangs of fresh grief, but he bites back the threatening tears, forcing himself to fill plates with food and mugs with coffee. To act as if the man he has loved as more than a brother since childhood has not been tortured, mutilated, twisted into a mindless murderer, and in a final act of cruelty, returned to him, a wrecked and devastated shell.

He turns to set a plate on the counter and nearly jumps out of his skin. The soldier has materialized behind him, and has apparently been standing there silently observing what he’s doing. He’s wearing one of Steve’s black t-shirts, and a pair of his grey sweatpants. His wet hair is pulled back, secured with a rubber band, and he has shaved the scruffy stubble from his face. He looks so very much like himself—like _Bucky_ —that it is all Steve can do not to throw his arms around him. The urge must have betrayed itself somehow, because the soldier shies away suddenly and retreats to the bar chair upon which he sat last night. Steve submerges his misery and smiles as he sets a full plate in front of him, then a tall glass of orange juice.

Without a word or a glance in his direction, the soldier swallows the glass of juice, then picks up his fork and eats mechanically, as if he doesn’t taste the food, and is simply absorbing the nutritional compounds required to keep his body functioning. Steve seats himself on the adjacent chair and pokes at his own breakfast, watching him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye.

He seems taller than he used to be, but he’d always been accustomed to think of Bucky as towering over him, so he can’t really tell if he’s taller or not. He is visibly sturdier and more muscular, though. The way he holds his body and moves his limbs reveals to Steve—who knows the feeling intimately—that he is accustomed to compensating for his greatly increased bone and tissue density, as well as his superhuman reflexes and strength.

The waves in his dark hair are silky and gorgeous, now that he is wearing it long. Steve has had to resist the urge to reach out and touch it multiple times, now. His face is…nearly the same. There is a hollow cast to his cheeks now, and a shadow beneath his eyes, but he is every bit as beautiful as the day he fell. The same angular cheekbones and insolent, pouting mouth. The large, melancholy eyes, that make him look as if he is perpetually on the verge of tears, even when he is laughing. Steve wonders if he’ll ever hear him laugh again. Or even see him smile.

“So, you’re not going to turn me in,” the soldier says, drawing him from his reflections.

“Turn you in?” Steve asks, momentarily confused.

The soldier looks at him and waits.

“Right,” Steve says. “No, I’m not going to turn you in.”

“Why.”

“You’re my friend.”

“I tried to kill you.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I had a choice last night.”

“And you chose not to.”

“How can you possibly be this stupid, and still be alive?”

“Because you haven’t killed me yet,” Steve grins.

“Why are you doing this!” the soldier demands, slamming his fork down on the counter, but restraining the action enough to avoid damaging anything.

Steve crosses his arms. “Why are you?”

“Why am I what?”

“Why are you sitting here in my house? If you don’t know me and you apparently can’t kill me, why are you still here?”

The soldier looks away again. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Because you’re lying to yourself, and you think lying to me will help you convince yourself it’s true.”

“No. You were nothing to me but another mission. I would have ended your life and never thought about you again. But you opened your stupid fucking mouth and my directives went haywire. I walked away from my mission. That shouldn’t even be possible. I want to know what you did to me.”

“I didn’t do anything. I just talked to you. You’re my friend, Buck. You didn’t kill me because there’s some part of you that remembers that.”

“Friendship isn’t magic. How did you get a reset code?”

“A what?”

“A reset code, Steve.”

“I don’t…know what that means.”

The soldier leans closer, looking into Steve’s stupid, symmetrical face. His jaw is too square and his eyes are too blue. In combination with his concerned frown and absurd blonde hair, the overall impression he gives is one of a large, hyperbolically friendly breed of dog. Also his pupils have dilated and his heart rate has increased. This reaction is unexpected, and suggests fear. Or sexual arousal.

Assessment: Potential vulnerability.

The soldier is not a Widow-class operative, but his indexes contain detailed information regarding their operating parameters. Psychological manipulation. Create strong negative and positive emotional responses, initiate sexual contact while target is unbalanced, exploit vulnerability to extract information, strike when target is unwary or unconscious.

He remains close, infringing on Steve’s personal space, but not actually entering it. “Everyone on earth wants me dead except you. Why?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ve only told you like, fifty times. I can’t believe you have the nerve to call me stupid.”

“That’s why you dropped your shield and let me beat you half to death. Because I was your friend.”

“Yeah. It is. Are you repeating it because you’re finally catching on, or because you’re still having trouble with the concept?”

“That sounds like stupidity to me.”

“You said that,” Steve says irritably. “Thanks for reminding me how stupid you think I am.”

Pleased by having made such rapid progress, the soldier needles this spot further. “You’re either stupid or you’re lying.”

“Are you kidding me? What would I be lying about, Buck?”

“The reason you let me beat you. I don’t believe it was because we were friends.”

“Well, it was.”

“No. It was something else.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“So, now you’re trying to annoy me to death,” Steve sighs. “Since shooting me and stabbing me didn’t do it.”

The soldier gazes at him for a several beats, then he reclines languidly against the back of the chair and lets his knees fall apart. Steve’s eyes inadvertently follow his hand as he drops it between his thighs, then flicker hastily back up to his face.

“Tell me, Steve,” the soldier says, with a venomous twist of his lips. “Is it really Bucky you want? Or did you decide his body is good enough?”

Steve’s blue eyes go cold and hard like polar ice. “Fuck you.”

With that, he gets up and walks down the hall to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a bang. The soldier waits a moment, then he creeps silently down the hall and listens at the door. What he hears makes his stomach knot painfully and static crackle in his mind. He had intended to provoke the man and get a rise out of him, but this is not the anticipated reaction. His actions have not caused anger, they have caused Steve distress. Distress to the point of weeping. His brow furrows. Target distress is invalid. Reassess. 

Target index not found.

God damn it. The reset code.

Create new index. Steve. Stupid, blonde, blue-eyed dick named Steve.

Index already exists.

Check index: Stupid, blonde, blue-eyed dick named Steve.

Index found. Steve Rogers. Status: ally, direct superior.

Direct fucking—this system is malfunctioning colossally. Edit index.

Index locked.

Purge index.

Invalid command.

God fucking damn it.

His directives have gone insane, his indexes are in full-on rebellion, and Steve is in distress. This is what he gets for improvising instead of sticking to set parameters. He crouches on the floor clutching his head until the roaring chaos dies to a murmur, and he is able to continue audio surveillance. After fourteen minutes, the muffled sounds of Steve’s weeping die off and are replaced by soft, even breathing. The soldier waits six more minutes. Then, taking extraordinary care to maintain silence, he rises to his feet, ceases respiration, and slowly turns the knob to open the bedroom door.


	3. Stupid

Steve wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright, heart pounding with panic. He knows hours have passed, because the white morning sunlight has changed to the gold of afternoon, and the shadows have grown long across the floor. He jumps up and opens his door, preparing himself for the worst. The safe raided, the soldier gone, and hell to pay when someone else crosses his path.

“Buck?” he calls out, as he walks quickly down the hall. “Bucky?”

There is no answer. The place is silent and still. The silence of absence. Stomach turning, he hurries to the laundry room. He finds the safe undisturbed, and all of the weapons as he left them. He has a thought and returns to his bedroom. The soldier’s leather armor is still hanging in the closet. All that appears to be missing are his boots and black trousers, and oddly, a navy-blue hoodie that he recently bought and hasn’t worn yet. He returns to the kitchen to decide what to do next. At this point, he realizes that the breakfast things have been put away and the dishes have been washed. He frowns. Who does the dishes before they—his train of thought is derailed by something else.

Beside the front door, there is a black throwing knife sticking out of the wall, impaling a scrap of paper. He goes over to inspect it. It is the corner of an envelope, with the words “back soon” written on it, in Bucky’s plain, uniform handwriting. Where would the soldier go? And what kind of brainwashed assassin leaves a note? He is still contemplating this, when he hears keys jangle in the lock. The door opens and he stares, speechless, as the soldier enters the house, wearing his missing navy hoodie and his black baseball cap, and carrying a brown paper bag. He stops short when he sees Steve. For a split second, he looks as if he might bolt, but the spell seems to pass and he continues into the kitchen, where he sets the bag on the counter.

Steve blinks at him. “You…went shopping?”

“You needed things,” the soldier replies stiffly. “I got them.”

He removes the cap and hoodie and hangs them on the coat rack, returns Steve’s house keys to the hook by the door, then begins transferring the contents of the bag to the refrigerator. Cranberry juice, a container of dark purple plums, a carton of eggs, bacon wrapped in brown paper, and some leafy green vegetables Steve doesn’t recognize. He takes out a loaf of bread and places it in the breadbox.

“Holy shit,” Steve laughs. “So the Winter Soldier knows how to shop for groceries.”

The soldier rolls his eyes. “I’m an assassin, not a six-year-old.”

“I didn’t know you had any…money or anything.”

“Supplies and equipment aren’t free. I have plenty of money.”

“Oh.”

The soldier takes out a pound of coffee beans and sets them by the grinder, then crumples up the grocery bag and deposits it in the waste bin. This done, he turns to face Steve, but he doesn’t look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You’re—for what?” Steve asks, bewildered.

“I don’t know.”

“But…if you don’t know what you’re apologizing for, how can you—”

“Please stop talking.”

Steve’s mouth promptly shuts. The soldier glances up at him, then quickly away. His green eyes dart anxiously to and fro, and the furrow in his brow deepens.

“I’m sorry for this,” he says, gesturing to himself. “I’m sorry I’m…not him.”

These softly spoken words hit Steve like a kick to the gut. Staggered, he reaches out reflexively to touch his friend. The soldier’s cybernetic hand snaps closed on his wrist. Whip-fast, he twists Steve’s arm behind his back and pushes his chest against the wall, pinning him there with his body.

“Don’t touch me,” he growls into his ear. “Don’t…don’t fucking—”

His sentence breaks off with a choking sound in his throat. Steve can feel his chest heaving with agitated breaths, and his iron grip on Steve’s wrist keeps tightening, coming dangerously close to cracking the bones.

“Buck, please,” Steve says. “You’re hurting me.”

“Hurting you? I’m hurting _you_?”

He spins Steve around and slams his back into the wall, holding him by his neck and the front of his shirt. He is ash-white and shaking, and his eyes are wilder than Steve has seen them since that they fought on the helicarrier.

“You did this to me!” he says, his voice rising to a fevered pitch. “You broke my mind! You purged my directives and now my brain is in a fucking blender. There are these…these things now. I can’t get them out of my head, I can’t—”

With a cry of pain, he lets go of Steve and clutches his head, doubling over and almost crumpling to the floor. Steve catches him and sits down with him to break his fall, holding him tightly as his body racks and seizes. He has no idea what else to do. Several long minutes pass, then at last the fit seems to ease. Steve cautiously loosens his hold, then his heart lurches as the soldier twists suddenly around. His powerful arms coil about Steve’s torso like serpents and he pushes his face into his chest. Steve can feel his hot, damp breath through his shirt.

“Please help me,” he rasps. “Please.”

“That’s all I want to do,” Steve says, letting a hand rest gingerly on his back. The soldier doesn’t respond, but his agitated breathing calms somewhat. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me, Buck. I know you don’t trust me, but you’re gonna have to try.”

At this supremely inopportune moment, there is a knock at Steve’s front door. The soldier springs to his feet and vanishes into the bedroom. Steve curses under his breath as he pushes himself up off the floor, vowing internally to let the soldier kill whoever it is and dispose of the body as he sees fit. He looks through the peep-hole, then his expression changes and he opens the door.

“Hey, Sam, come in. What’s up?”

“You haven’t been answering your phone all day,” Sam says, peering about warily as he steps inside. “I thought I’d better make sure you were alive.”

“Sorry,” Steve winces. “I left it…somewhere around here. I haven’t gotten used to having a cell phone yet.”

“I keep forgetting you’re an old man,” Sam grins, then he notices the disheveled state of Steve’s hair and clothing. “Everything ok?”

“Yeah, it’s—nothing. We were just talking.”

“Must’ve been quite a conversation. Where’s, uh…where is he?”

“He hid when he heard someone at the door.”

Sam laughs. “He hid? What is he, a cat?”

“I’d rather be a cat than a bird,” the soldier mutters, as he stalks back into the living room and flings himself down on the sofa.

“Hey there, Mittens,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. “Nice to see you, too.”

The soldier glares at him. “Cats eat birds.”

Sam crosses his arms. “Falcons eat cats.”

“Why are you always here!”

“Why am I—why the fuck are you here? Last I checked, I didn’t break in and stab anybody.”

“Guys, please,” Steve interjects. “We’re all on the same side. Can we try to keep it civil?”

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” the soldier grumbles. “I’ll fucking kill all of you.”

“No, you won’t. Sam and I are the only people in the world who don’t want you dead or in prison, so get your feet off the damned sofa and act your—act like an adult.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam says, then corrects. “I mean, yeah. We’re all on the same side. Let’s act like adults.”

Steve looks expectantly at the soldier until he rolls his eyes and makes a show of sitting up and turning laboriously to set his feet on the ground.

“So, listen, man,” Sam says to Steve. “One of the messages I sent you was about that pest problem.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You think we’ve got an infestation?”

“Maybe not, but you know what they say. If you see one cockroach there’s a whole nest.”

The soldier looks back and forth between them. “Are you guys talking in the stupidest code ever?”

“No,” Steve retorts. “It’s not…the stupidest code _ever_.”

“It really is.”

“What are we talking about then?”

The soldier sighs patiently. “You’re doing it because I’m here, so it’s about Hydra. High value target since you think spotting one implies there are others in the area, and you called it an infestation. That means home. So they’re here in DC.”

“Alright, smartass, why don’t you use your superior intellect to help, then,” Sam says, getting out his phone. He flips to a black and white security-camera photo and holds it up so the soldier can see it. “You know this guy?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

Steve keeps his eyes on the soldier’s face. “You do know. Who is he?”

The soldier attempts to resist the question, but he finds that doing so causes painful bursts of static. The index comes up and he repeats the information aloud.

“Major Damir Yukashev. Hydra operative, formerly embedded in the GRU Spetsnaz. Reported killed in action November 1992.”

“I guess he got better,” Sam remarks drily. “Any idea what he’d be doing here?”

“Yes.”

Sam and Steve look at him and wait. Ten seconds or so pass in silence, then Steve clears his throat. The soldier looks up with a start, as if he’s coming out of a trance.

“What is he doing here, Buck?” Steve asks.

“He’s here for me,” the soldier answers.

“To kill you or to retrieve you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“They know I’m compromised. I activated the purge protocols on a Hydra safehouse but didn’t report for extraction. He’s here to recover me, or to kill me if he can’t. Which means bird man is right. He won’t be alone.”

“Ok, so how do we find him?” Sam asks.

“I thought you guys were professional spies.”

“No, you’re right,” Sam says testily. “Excuse me for thinking you’d have some insight about which holes your Hydra buddies might crawl into.”

“They’re not my fucking buddies!” the soldier snarls, jumping to his feet.

“That’s enough!” Steve barks. “Bucky, sit your ass down. Sam, go sit there. I can’t believe I have to separate you two like a couple of kids at recess.”

The soldier falls sullenly back into the sofa and Sam takes the seat Steve has indicated, in an easy chair on the far side of the coffee table.

“Wherever he is, we’re going to find him and bring him in,” Steve says, returning to the business at hand. “Hydra will get their hands on you over my dead body.”

“That’s exactly how they’ll do it,” the soldier says flatly. “Over your dead body. And bird man’s and anyone else who gets in their way. If you really want to keep them from recovering me, the best thing you can do is put a bullet in my head right now.”

“That’s not an option.”

“I mean, I’m willing to keep it on the table, just in case,” Sam shrugs. “But it’s not my first choice. What makes you so sure they’ll be able to get you back? Just cause they want to really bad doesn’t mean they have magic powers. Unless…they don’t, do they?”

“My mission directives have been purged, but they can activate me again. They have done it before. Many times.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I bet I know someone who could help. Someone I know we can trust. I need to make a call.” Steve pats his pockets, then glances about the room. “First I need to find my phone.”

“It’s on the floor under your bed,” the soldier says.

Steve frowns. “How do you know that?”

“You knocked it down when you took my gun and never picked it up.”

“Oh, right,” Steve says sheepishly. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t kill each other, that’s an order.”

As soon as they hear the bedroom door shut behind him, the soldier turns and fixes his icy green eyes on Sam.

Sam looks him up and down. “You got something to say, Mittens?”

“You care about Steve,” the soldier says. “You’re his friend.”

This is clearly not what the man expected to hear. He crosses his arms warily. “What about it.”

“He’s vulnerable when it comes to Bucky. His judgement is affected. You can see that, too.”

“As much as I hate to agree with you about anything…yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

“If I’m activated, I won’t hesitate to kill you all. That includes Steve.”

“You keep saying charming shit like that and I might—”

“Shut up and listen,” the soldier cuts him off, leaning forward urgently. “I don’t trust Steve to do what has to be done if they get control of me. So if that happens, you have to kill me. Do not try to immobilize me. Do not try to take me in. Shoot to kill. Head or heart, preferably both. Do you understand?”

Sam looks at him for a moment, with something approaching respect in his expression. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Good. And stop calling me Mittens. It’s not funny.”

“Uh, it’s actually hilarious, and no I won’t.”

“I don’t like you.”

“I know.”

The soldier sits back and glares at him. Sam sits back and returns the glare. The soldier crosses his arms. Sam crosses his, as well.

“Stop that,” the soldier snaps.

Sam looks innocent. “Stop what?”

“You’re doing what I’m doing.”

“No, I’m doing what I’m doing. You didn’t invent arm crossing.”

“You didn’t do it till after I did. Stop copying me.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

The soldier rolls his eyes and tosses his long hair out of his face, at which Sam tosses his head in the same way.

“You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what? I had hair in my face.”

“You did not.”

“You don’t know. You’re not the sheriff of my hair.”

“You don’t even have hair!”

“Guys, seriously,” Steve scolds, as he steps back into the room at that moment.

“He started it,” the soldier grumbles.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about. I was sitting here minding my own business.”

“If I can’t even leave you two alone for five minutes, we can’t work as a team. I need you both on this, so help me out, here.”

“Sorry, Cap,” Sam says. “What did Natasha have to say?”

Steve blinks. “What—how did you know I called her?”

“You said you were gonna call someone you trust. She’s the only person you trust with connections to the KGB, so…”

“Did you know who I was calling?” Steve asks the soldier, who nods. “Wow. I guess I’m not very good at subtle. She doesn’t know much about Yukashev anyway, but she’s doing some digging for me. In the mean time, we need to find somewhere safe to take Bucky, in case they come looking for him.”

“I think he’s as safe as he’s gonna get right here,” Sam says. “He’s a priority-one fugitive. The last place they’ll expect him to be is with the guy they sent him to kill, who also happens to be in charge of hunting him down for the good guys.”

“He’s right,” the soldier says. “They won’t be looking for me here.”

“Ok,” Steve nods. “Then we’re just waiting to hear back from Nat so we can talk strategy. Sam, you should get your gear ready for a short-notice strike. And stay on top of our intel alerts in case they get a hit on Yukashev.”

“Will do,” Sam says, getting up from his chair. “Just remember to keep your phone on you this time, ok old man?”

“Ok, punk,” Steve smirks. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“You be good, Mittens,” Sam says to the soldier. “Try not to scratch up the furniture.”

The soldier ignores him and stares straight ahead.

“That’s ok,” Sam laughs. “You think of something clever to say back, you can have Steve text it to me. Night, Steve.”

Steve locks the door behind him and returns to the living room, where he sits down on the couch beside the sullen and glowering soldier.

“How do they do it, Buck?” he asks. “How do they activate you?”

“Reset code,” the soldier answers immediately. 

“What is a reset code?”

“Pre-programmed word or phrase used to return the soldier to compliance when it fails to respond appropriately to directives.”

Steve recoils internally from his horrifyingly casual use of the word ‘it,’ but he manages to keep his voice cool and level.

“How is a reset code delivered?”

“Requires auditory transmission.”

“So, he just has to say these words to you, and…what happens?”

“Depends on the code. Lower clearance-level codes incapacitate for transportation or correction. Higher clearance-level codes reset to compliance condition.”

Steve forces himself to pass over the loaded word ‘correction’ for now. “What is a compliance condition?”

“Memory clear, awaiting orders.”

“I’m so sorry, Buck. Jesus Christ…I’m so sorry.”

The soldier looks at him. The stupid, blue-eyed man named Steve seems abnormally prone to weeping. He has turned away to hide the tears starting in his eyes, but he can’t keep them out of his voice. At the sound, however, the soldier’s throat constricts and aches suddenly. Apparently Steve’s pain makes him feel pain, too, which he finds unpleasant and confusing. What is the opposite of pain? Not-pain. He wants to make Steve feel that instead. What would make Steve feel not-pain?

What would make Steve feel not-pain is Bucky. His venomous words from earlier cause him to feel remorse again, but for a different reason. He can’t make Steve feel not-pain because he is not Bucky. He thinks he’s not. But somewhere in his fractured databases, a single voice rises above the storm of echoed nonsense. A warm, solid voice. A voice that feels like home. Steve’s voice.

“Stupid,” he murmurs.

“Seriously?” Steve says, turning to look at him from pink-rimmed blue eyes.

He moves to rise from the sofa, but the soldier grabs his arm with his trembling human hand. He has to force the words out through the tightness in his throat, but they come.

“You’re taking…all the stupid…with you.”

He doesn’t understand why his face is wet or why he feels like he needs to vomit, or why he smells popcorn and cigarette smoke, but Steve is throwing his arms around him, drawing him into a crushing embrace. Another unexpected response. The contact startles him and his heart beats erratically. His instinct is to struggle, pull away, but his body is responding on its own. He finds himself leaning into the touch. Putting his hands on Steve’s face, putting his mouth on Steve’s mouth. Pushing Steve’s lips apart and sliding his tongue forward to caress Steve’s tongue.

Steve hesitates for a fraction of a second, then returns the kiss with bruising force, groping and touching him, till they are both hot and gasping for breath. This feels like not-pain. It feels good. He wants more. His body demands more. He wants to feel this man’s skin on his skin. To be held and kissed and penetrated by him. He has an index for that sensation. It is not the opposite of pain, but it is good pain. A deep, burning ache that heats the body from within. He wants to feel that. To make Steve feel it. 

“I want you,” he pants against Steve’s lips. “Fuck me.”

Steve draws back, looking searchingly into his eyes. Then his face falls. “Buck, this isn’t you.”

“But you keep saying it is,” the soldier insists. “If that’s true, I’m the same man you were fucking before, I just don’t remember.”

“No, we weren’t—we didn’t…have sex,” Steve stammers, flushing bright pink.

“We didn’t?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“But then—why do you look at me the way you do? Why does my body respond to you like this? Were we…what were we?”

“We were best friends,” Steve says softly. “I loved you. I still love you.”

The soldier stares at him. “You mean you were…in love with me?”

“I was.” Steve clears his throat to steady his voice. “But I never told you.”

“Why?”

“We were at war,” Steve sighs. “I wanted to wait till the right time. I never imagined this would be the way I’d finally do it. Seventy years after I watched you die, with your mind too far gone for it to matter.”

The soldier’s expression hardens and he turns away.

Realizing his mistake too late, Steve’s face drains of color. “Oh no, Buck, I didn’t—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yes you did,” the soldier says. “You’re only saying I’m still him. You don’t believe it.”

“I do believe it,” Steve insists. “I know you’re in there. I just have to find a way to get through to you.”

“What if you can’t, Steve? What if those memories never come back? Then what am I?”

“Then…we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Steve says staunchly, forcing down a pang of grief at the idea. “Even if you don’t remember who you were, you’ll still be who you are.”

“I don’t know who I am,” the soldier says despondently.

“But I do.” Steve leans forward earnestly and takes his human hand. “Let me help you, Buck.”

The soldier looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, then he turns away and draws his hand out of Steve’s, wringing it in his prosthetic.

“You can’t. I don’t…I don’t want you to. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be trained to be some other man who you used to love. I’m not your fucking pet, I’m the guy they sent to kill you. Only I fucked my mission harder than any mission has ever been fucked in the history of missions.”

“Yeah,” Steve chirps. “You did. So it looks like you’re stuck with me, now. You hungry?”

“Why do you insist upon cooking all your own meals?”

“Actually, I was thinking we’d order some Chinese takeout. Not really in the mood to cook tonight.”

“Fine.” The soldier pauses. “Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“If I…if I were—nothing. Nevermind.”

“Buck, talk to me,” Steve says, reaching for his hand again.

The soldier avoids the touch and retreats down the hall, slamming Steve’s bedroom door shut behind him. He falls facedown into Steve’s stupid, soft bed that smells like stupid, handsome Steve and his stupid shaving cream or soap or whatever. He feels his dick getting hard again in response to Steve’s scent. It happened when he kissed Steve, too. Why does this keep happening? He never experiences sexual arousal. Not never, but rarely. Red hair, green eyes, hot water—his indexes vomit a wall of painful static and he retreats from the fragmented impression.

Why they have malfunctioned in that specific way is unclear, but everything has gone haywire, so who knows. His index for the last time he had sex is perfectly intact. Adrenaline, Kevlar, sweat on hard muscle, creaking wood-framed bed collapsing under their combined weight. He wonders vaguely if the man is dead now. Probably. If not, this nation’s government has certainly incarcerated him and will likely decommission him, anyway. Occupational hazard of working for the obvious bad guys. Hope the memory of fucking the Winter Soldier consoles you while you rot in federal prison, asshole. Pretty impressive bragging rights, though. If anyone would ever believe you. He hears footsteps coming down the hall. The door opens. Rookie mistake, Steve. Now you’re just that much closer to—

He gives a start at the sudden, disorienting feeling of being yanked backward. He is hauled to the side of the bed and dragged roughly to his feet. He doesn’t even have time to be indignant before stupid, blonde, blue-eyed Steve is pressing him against his body with his very strong arms, kissing him with a fevered recklessness that sends all his indexes spinning wildly out of control. Steve’s mouth tastes so good. His body feels so good. The soldier’s heart rate increases sharply. He smells wood smoke and leather. Gunpowder. His indexes have no idea what to do with this information. There is no possible source for these scents nearby.

“Fuck me, Steve,” he pleads, when Steve draws back to look into his face. “I need to feel something that isn’t pain. Please.”

He knows Steve has no power to withstand such a heartbreaking entreaty, made in his best friend’s voice and in this way. He has struck his blow with pinpoint accuracy. Broken his iron will. Reeling as if he is intoxicated, Steve allows himself to be pushed onto his back on the bed. The soldier holds his gaze with his green eyes while he strips himself quickly to the skin, leaving his clothing where it falls. At the sight of his friend’s naked body, Steve’s face flushes pink again, but the soldier does not intend to give him time to be shy. Kneeling on the bed, he pulls off Steve’s shirt and tosses it on the floor, followed immediately by his jeans and underwear, then he pauses, tracing a fingertip along the faint, purple line in Steve’s abdomen, where the stab wound had been. While he is engrossed in this, Steve leans over and removes a black bottle from the nightstand drawer. The soldier takes it out of his hand and looks at it.

“Gun Oil,” he reads aloud.

Steve’s face turns even pinker. “I didn’t—the company sent me a bunch of it. They were trying to get me to endorse their product line.”

“It’s not wise to use lubricant made for firearms on your body.”

“It’s just called that. It’s meant for…it’s people lubricant.”

The soldier eyes him doubtfully, then turns the bottle over and reads the information printed on the back. Satisfied that Steve’s assertion had been accurate, he hands it back to him, then climbs over to straddle his hips. He feels Steve’s heart pounding in his chest as he lowers his body onto him, letting his long hair fall around his face. Steve reaches up and buries his hands in it, as the soldier pushes his searching tongue into his mouth, rolling and curling it around his own. Steve groans into the kiss and bucks his hips. The soldier’s metallic hand has slid up Steve’s chest to twist and tug at his hard nipples. Encouraged by Steve’s response, the soldier gives a low growl and pins both his wrists above his head, sinking his teeth into Steve’s neck. He feels Steve gasp and shudder. He licks and sucks and bites into his skin over and over, grinding his hard cock against Steve’s till his body is trembling beneath him.

“Buck,” Steve pants. “I don’t have—any idea what I’m doing. You’ll have to show me.”

Another unexpected response. Interesting. The soldier draws away to look down at him.

“You have had sex with a man, correct?”

Steve swallows hard. His cheeks are pink again. “I…have never had sex with anyone.”

The soldier’s eyes flicker up and down his body. “How is that possible?”

“I mean, it’s pretty easy. I just didn’t.”

“Why.”

“I was frozen in the Arctic in a Nazi super-jet for seventy years and when they thawed me out, I was still in love with a dead man.”

The soldier blinks, contemplating this, then looks at Steve again. “When they thawed me out, I killed people. Did you kill people?”

“No. Well…not a lot of people. And they were all bad guys.”

Moralizing about bad guys again. The soldier’s patience for this type of conversation is depleted.

“Can we have sex now?”

“Sex…” Steve repeats distractedly. “I mean—yes. Yes, please. Let’s do that.”

A hint of a smile twitches up the corners of the soldier’s lips. Steve gazes dreamily up at him as he slicks his cock with lube, then his eyes go wide when he takes it in his hand and immediately presses the head against his taut opening.

“Wait, shouldn’t we—don’t you need to…prepare, or anything?”

“No,” the soldier says, in that unnervingly expressionless way. “My body will acclimate as you penetrate me.”

“Oh. Oh—fuck!”

Steve’s sudden exclamation is the result of the slippery head of his cock being pushed suddenly through the tight ring of muscle. The soldier’s eyes roll back and his lips part. The burn, the ache, the resistance gradually giving way, as he takes him deeper. The sensation of being stretched and filled, slowly impaled on Steve’s big, hard dick. This is good pain. This is what he needs. He pushes himself down, panting through his gritted teeth, until Steve is firmly hilted inside him, all the way to base.

“You feel—so fucking good,” Steve sputters. “Don’t—don’t move yet.”

The soldier looks down at him tranquilly, but there is a mist of perspiration on his forehead and a flush of color in his cheeks and lips. Steve’s eyes travel down his chest, over his abdomen, to his cock, standing erect between his thighs, a drop of clear fluid glistening on the slit in the ruddy head, then back up to his face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

“You know?”

Steve looks like he wants to laugh, but he is also straining against the urge to thrust, which the soldier finds amusing.

“People have said that about me before.”

“Who?”

He ignores the question and leans forward, planting both hands on Steve’s chest, which flushes and heaves with ragged breaths as the soldier begins to roll his hips. Steve’s wide, bright blue eyes stay fixed intently on his, pupils dilated to twice their usual size. He clenches his white teeth, but fails to stifle his involuntary vocalizations, which the soldier notes with satisfaction. He responds by increasing his rhythm, riding him harder and faster, beating the blunt head of Steve’s cock against his prostate, savoring each sharp gasp and soft groan he draws from those lips. His own cock is hot and throbbing, leaking all over Steve’s hand as he strokes it, twisting the aching shocks of pleasure into a tight knot in his gut.

Beads of sweat roll down his chest and his thighs begin to shake. His muscles constrict, squeezing tighter around Steve’s thick shaft. The tension winds to an excruciating peak and suddenly snaps. He chokes down a cry as he comes, spattering Steve’s stomach with milk-white streaks as his body jerks and twitches. Steve takes hold of his waist and pistons his hips, plunging in harder and faster, till he gives a final, deep thrust and holds it. His cock convulses, releasing bursts of warm, slippery fluid inside him. Before the spasms have even begun to ebb, he pulls the soldier down on top of him and clings to him, murmuring unintelligible words and pressing breathless kisses to his mouth and face.

The soldier submits to being held and caressed for six minutes and ten seconds, then he pries himself free and goes to the bathroom to clean his body. He returns with a clean, damp cloth and wipes down Steve’s as well, avoiding his gaze, because the soft, adoring look in his bright blue eyes is too painful for him to acknowledge. He would rather be corrected in the most brutal, flesh-rending and limb-tearing ways than attempt to withstand one glance of affection from those eyes, knowing it is not really meant for him. When Steve has been sanitized to his satisfaction, he gets up to deposit the cloth in the hamper, but Steve takes it and tosses it on the floor. The soldier looks disapprovingly after it, but Steve has already caught hold of him and is drawing him back into his arms.

His instinct to resist wells up again, but he likes how content and not in pain Steve seems to be for the moment, so he lays his head on his chest and listens to his strong, regular heartbeat while Steve’s fingertips draw lazy circles on his back. He begins to think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be Steve’s Bucky. The moment the thought takes shape, the static erupts and the chaos howls in his brain, threatening to swallow him, to drag him back to the cold, dark place. But he holds onto Steve, and eventually, the storm passes.


	4. Maybe

The sky hangs dark and heavy, above a bleak and barren waste. A land swept white with snow, where mountains cut like icy teeth into the horizon. Here the weary soldier wanders, silent and alone. Before him, the chasm splits the earth from east to west. Amidst the jewel-red stars, a white star burns, clear and bright. The beauty of it pierces his heart.

He lowers his eyes to look out across the chasm, and suddenly he feels an icy thrill of hope. On the other side, a figure stands, a deep blue shadow amid the whirling white. The figure stretches out its hand. Before the soldier’s feet now lies a bridge of rope and planks, that twists and sways in the wailing winds.

The sight of it fills him with black, unreasoning terror. His footsteps falter on the brink. The cold sinks deep into his body, freezes his lungs and dulls his mind. His heartbeat slows and stills. Overhead, the white star glitters in the black vault of the sky.

He wakes up gasping, swallowing deep, desperate breaths into his frostbitten lungs. To his surprise, he finds that he is not cold, as usual, but rather uncomfortably warm. He tries to sit up. He is being restrained somehow. Looking down to evaluate the nature of the restraints, he is bewildered to discover that they appear to be human arms. These arms are attached to a naked body, which is pressed flush against his back, radiating heat like a descended sun. He tugs irritably at the arms. They are inhumanly strong. He tugs harder. The owner of the arms mumbles a drowsy protest and they constrict more securely around him. They are Steve’s arms. He can smell his scent and feel his breath on the back of his neck.

With a muttered oath, he manages to twist his body around to face him. Steve’s stupid, handsome face is lying on the white pillow, with the morning sun illuminating his halo of golden hair like a fucking painting in a church. Stupid, blonde, handsome Steve, sleeping blissfully away, like there’s not a human weapon who has put bullets and blades into his body on multiple occasions lying beside him. Though, in Steve’s defense, he had fucked that human weapon pretty thoroughly out of his senses last night. The weapon’s legs and other body parts are still sore and tender.

The soldier’s eyes go unfocused as he searches his indexes for the past twelve hours. They contain having sex with Steve in his bed, then getting out of bed and being made to eat something Steve had called Chinese takeout, which was delivered by a woman with an eyebrow piercing, and served in white, paper boxes. The soldier had informed Steve that he has been in China, and that the noodle-based concoctions of oil and salt in those boxes did not originate in that country. That had made Steve laugh.

This section has malfunctioned, and is partially overwritten by another index, containing the soldier eating with Steve while sitting on ammunition crates in a cold tent. He can still feel the sandy grit of dry, corn-based bread on his tongue. The texture was not much improved by being dipped into bland, soupy beans, but the scent of cordite and gunpowder in the air was pleasant.

The malfunction rights itself and the index continues last night, with the soldier being made to look at photographs of a young man who resembles him doing things he does not remember with people whose names he does not know, until this had caused Steve to weep again. The soldier replaced the photographs and pushed the box under the sofa, where the contents could not cause Steve further distress.

Steve had then taken a phone call from Natasha Romanoff, which agitated the soldier for reasons he had flatly refused to explain. When pressed, he had shut down and ceased speaking to Steve for a long time. Steve had become morose and went away to bathe. The soldier went after him, but found the bathroom door locked. He crushed the doorknob in his titanium fist and joined Steve in the shower. This had led to Steve fucking him in the shower, then again in his bed, with vigor and stamina for which the soldier had been unprepared. Steve’s lack of experience, it seems, had been greatly outweighed by his enthusiasm. Also by his superhuman strength and endurance.

The remainder of the index contains nonvisual sensory data, since he had been in a sleep cycle. Mostly the sound of Steve’s breathing, the weight of Steve’s arms around his torso, and the frankly unreasonable quantity of heat emanating from Steve’s body. He backs up to the sex with Steve index, which requires more thorough review. He is still scanning through this, when he realizes his human hand has reached out of its own accord and has been absently carding its fingers through Steve’s soft, blonde hair. He draws it hastily away. Of course, this wakes Steve, and of course his bright blue eyes blink open and he smiles a stupid, sleepy smile that makes the soldier feel light and warm and angry and sick all at the same time.

“Morning, Buck,” Steve yawns. “You been awake long?”

The soldier glares at him. “Do you. Have. A death wish.”

Steve looks slightly more confused than usual. “What?”

“You went to sleep. With me, here, in your bed.”

“Uh…”

“I have repeatedly stated my intention to kill you, shot you multiple times, and stabbed you.” He taps the mattress to emphasize his point. “In this very bed.”

To the soldier’s immeasurable exasperation, Steve’s stupid, sunny smile broadens. “You’re really cute when you’re lecturing me about how you could’ve murdered me in my sleep.”

“I could have,” the soldier insists, attempting to writhe free of Steve’s encircling arms. “You were unconscious and totally defenseless for—let me go!—for nearly seven hours.”

Steve lets him go and they both sit up.

“It was the same thing on the helicarrier, when you dropped your shield and let me beat you,” the soldier continues. “Were you born with no instinct for self-preservation?”

Steve’s handsome face becomes serious. “Buck, it’s not that I don’t care if I live. It’s that if I really believed you would kill me…I would want to die.”

The soldier stares at him, stunned. He opens his mouth, but before he can form a response, something happens in his brain. Not the howling static. Something like the indexing malfunctions, but occurring right now in real time, and not while he attempts access a memory. His stomach turns and that popcorn and cigarette smoke smell comes back. This time he smells shoe polish and aftershave, too.

“I told you not—to do anything stupid—till I got back,” he gasps. The burst of static fades and his face flushes with anger, his voice growing stronger and more steady. “You have done nothing but a series of increasingly stupid things since then! Your suicidal lack of concern for your own safety is becoming an issue, Steve!”

His face is wet again and his body is shaking all over, and Steve is looking at him in that soft, adoring way that makes his stomach turn. He wipes his eyes with the back of his flesh hand and tries not to sniffle, because he’s still angry at Steve for being an idiot who wants to die, and sniffling makes one seem sad, not angry.

“Stop fucking trying to get yourself killed,” he says sullenly, pushing himself out of bed.

“Buck!” Steve calls after him. “Bucky, come back! I’m sorry!”

He doesn’t sound sorry, though, he sounds happy. He sounds fucking giddy. The soldier grumbles about this to himself in Russian as he starts the water in the shower. He can’t lock the door, since he destroyed the knob last night, but Steve doesn’t try to come in. Which he pretends does not annoy him. When he emerges from the bathroom, Steve is cooking breakfast again. The soldier indexes this behavior among his other strange habits as he requisitions clothing from Steve’s closet and dresses himself.

So far, his index of Steve’s habits contains: opposing injustice in all its forms, making pencil drawings in his leather book, making himself an easy target for snipers, stopping on the street to pet literally every dog he sees, engaging in unnecessary conversations with the elderly, running, reading, weeping, trying to die in stupid ways, leaving clothing on the floor, and cooking his own meals. The inconsistencies in this list irritate the soldier. Were he in Steve’s position, his habits would include _not_ trying to die in stupid ways, and gutting anyone who looked at him cockeyed. Steve is a perplexing man. And his jeans are a size too large. The soldier adds ‘acquire clothing’ to his directives and pulls on Steve’s only other black t-shirt. With another muttered Russian oath, he collects Steve’s discarded clothing items from the floor and deposits them in the hamper, before he returns to the kitchen.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve grins, setting a full plate in front of him. “Nice outfit.”

“You wear your pants larger than you should,” the soldier replies. He picks up his fork and sets about devouring the pile of yellow eggs and thick slices of peppered bacon.

Steve puts a mug of coffee by his plate, then sits in the chair beside him to eat his own breakfast. “You want to go and get a few things today?”

“What kind of things?”

“I thought you might want to have some clothes and toiletries of your own. You know…if you’re gonna be staying a while.”

“Yes. Those things will be useful.”

“Let’s go after breakfast, then. Beat the lunch-hour traffic. What’s wrong?”

“I thought this was coffee,” the soldier says, frowning into his mug.

“It is.”

“It tastes different than I remember.”

“Better or worse?”

The soldier contemplates this as he swallows another mouthful. “Better.”

Steve smiles. “When was the last time you had a cup of coffee?”

He pauses, scanning his indexes. “1973.”

“Well, welcome to the twenty-first century, Buck. Lots of things are better now.”

“Things don’t seem better to me. Except coffee. And surveillance technology.”

“So, you…remember a lot of your missions?”

“I remember all of them.”

Steve looks down to conceal an expression of pain. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

The soldier drains the last drops of coffee from his mug and carries his empty dishes to the sink. Steve follows with his own, and the soldier begins to rinse them. He gives a start and blinks, feeling Steve’s hands on his hips. He is still processing this, when Steve’s forehead comes to rest against the back of his head. He stands there frozen, staring down at the running water. Why is Steve touching him this way? Does he want to have sex again?

Assessment: Steve is demonstrating affection through physical contact.

He puts his hands on the edge of counter and hangs his head forward. He feels Steve’s hot breath as he leans down to kiss the back of his neck. This makes the delicate skin prickle up with goosebumps, a sensation he finds very pleasant. Steve remains pressed against his body for fifty-three seconds, breathing deeply and kissing his neck. Then he draws away, saying he’ll be ready in a few minutes, and goes into the bathroom. The soldier hears the shower start. After a moment, he hears Steve’s voice making a distressed sound. He leaps over the counter like a pommel horse and is almost to the bathroom, when he stops short and stands there dumbfounded, listening. Steve is not in distress. He is singing.

“ _Maybe you’ll think of me, when you are all alone_ …”

Stupid, sunny Steve, literally singing in the shower. There is something so familiar about this melody. These words. But his indexes contain no—

His mind fractures. Multiple indexing errors. Full system meltdown.

The floor tilts beneath his feet as the room around him flies apart and rearranges itself into another room. A small bedroom with a single, dingy window. There is a pale, emaciated woman lying in a bed, with a patchwork quilt pulled up to her neck and a kerchief tied around her head, to conceal her thinning hair. She looks and smells like swiftly approaching death. A melody being played on a scratchy phonograph floats in through the open door.

_Maybe you’ll sit and sigh, wishing that I were near, then…_

“You’ll take…you’ll take care of him,” the woman is saying, in a weak, cracking rasp. “When I’m gone. Won’t you?”

Her fragile, nearly translucent hand reaches out and the soldier takes it in his. It feels like crepe paper wrapped around glass.

_Maybe you’ll ask me to come back again…_

“Promise me, Bucky,” she wheezes. “Promise you’ll look out…for my Stevie.”

“I promise, Mrs. Rogers,” the soldier hears his own voice saying, clear and confident. “I’ll take care of him. I swear.”

“Good boy,” she says, managing a feeble smile. “He’s not…he’s not strong…like you. He needs you.”

_…and maybe, I’ll say maybe…_

“Everything alright?” Steve’s voice says behind them.

The soldier turns to see Steve smiling at him, with wet hair and a blue towel wrapped around his waist. His head spins as he blinks wildly about the room. The bed and the woman and the phonograph are gone. This is Steve’s house. This is now.

“Hey, Buck, are you ok?” Steve asks, sounding increasingly concerned.

“I got…confused,” the soldier says unsteadily. “I’m ok now.”

Steve steps closer and looks into his face. “You’re really pale. Maybe you should rest.”

“No, I want to go. I need things.”

“Alright,” Steve says, not sounding convinced. “But sit down and drink a glass of water while I get dressed, ok?”

“Ok.”

Steve goes away and the soldier does as he’s been told, sitting on the bar chair and swallowing the glass of water, as he tries to make sense of this bizarre indexing malfunction. Who was that woman? Did he kill her? No. She was nearly dead already. He called her Mrs. Rogers. She called him the name Steve calls him. She said Steve’s name. She made him promise to take care of Steve. He swore he would. He swore to her on her deathbed.

Assessment: Existing directive ‘take care of Steve’ supersedes subsequent directives. Proceed according to set parameters.

Bullshit. Indexes are malfunctioning like it’s their job. Mrs. Rogers is not authorized to issue directives.

Directive recognized. Order accepted. Compliance required.

Since when can an index sound smug?

Compliance required.

God fucking damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Steve is singing and that is played in the memory is Maybe by the Ink Spots. I highly recommend listening to it.


	5. Jimmy

“What the—look at this, Buck,” Steve says, in an indignant undertone.

The soldier steps to his side and looks. “That number is the price.”

“Yeah, I know. Who charges forty dollars for a t-shirt?”

“This store,” the soldier says, flipping through the rack.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding the correct size. I want five black ones and five white ones.”

Steve stands there in utter astonishment as the soldier collects the ten clothing items and carries them away to the counter, then he shakes himself and follows.

“Three more of those, one dark grey, two dark blue,” the soldier is saying to the sales girl, in reference to the pair of black jeans she is holding up. “That jacket, drab, size large. Two henley thermals in cranberry, and two in black.”

“Excellent choices, sir,” she smiles sweetly. “And you still wanted the hoodie, right?”

“Yes, two. Charcoal and black.”

Steve stands there watching as she places each of the items into some sturdy-looking paper shopping bags, tapping her screen to tally them up as she does.

“Ok,” she beams, when the process is complete. “Your total today is twenty thirty-five, how would you like to take care of that?”

“Cash,” the soldier replies.

Steve attempts not to hyperventilate as he realizes she means two-thousand and thirty-five dollars, more than twice the sum one would have paid for an entire brand new automobile in his day. The soldier, however, is completely unfazed by the information. He draws a black, weatherproof pouch from his pocket and unzips it, thumbs through the bills inside, then hands a stack of them to the sales girl. She gives him his change and receipt, and hopes he’ll have a wonderful day and come back soon. He says he’s sure he will, and Steve follows him bewildered out of the store.

“Why do you look sick?” the soldier asks, as they walk down the street.

“I’ve never seen someone spend two grand on clothing in twenty minutes before. I think I’m in shock.”

“I don’t like shopping. I get what I want and I leave.”

“Yeah, but there are cheaper stores. You could’ve bought like, thirty t-shirts for the same price you got those ten.”

“Why would I do that? I like these.”

“I dunno. Because it’s wise to be careful with your money.”

“I don’t want cheap things. I want things that are good. Why are you so worried about my resources?” 

“Buck…I don’t even understand how you _have_ resources. You’re on the run from Hydra and the US authorities, so it’s not like you have an income. Do you even have a bank account?”

“I do not have a bank account,” the soldier says, looking straight ahead.

“See? That’s what I’m—”

“I have access to ten numbered accounts in Swiss banks, ten in the Cayman islands, and I have the locations and codes for hundreds of Hydra cash drops in every major city in the world.”

“Jesus Christ!” Steve exclaims in a whisper. “Why do you have access to so much money?”

“Procuring equipment on-site requires large sums of cash. Especially the kind I usually need.”

“Ok, but…what if whoever’s left at Hydra freezes those accounts?”

“They’d be freezing their own funding, if they did that. It could happen, if they noticed my withdrawals, but it’s unlikely. Even if they did, I’d still have access to the cash drops. You can’t freeze cash.”

“But isn’t that money all technically dirty? Shouldn’t you turn it over to the authorities?”

The soldier gives him a look and keeps walking.

“Ok, that was a stupid question,” Steve says, trotting to catch up with him. “I guess they do owe you seventy years of back-salary with hazardous duty pay. And they’re the bad guys, so…any money that’s not in their hands is a plus.”

“The fact that I’m ok with taking the money makes you uncomfortable, but you don’t want to ask me to stop, so you’re finding justifications.”

Steve grins. “They’re pretty good justifications.”

“I don’t intend to need things I can’t get, while I know Hydra money is sitting around waiting for someone to put it to destructive uses. Clothing is a necessity. I didn’t have any. Now I do. Problem solved.”

They continue in silence for another half block.

“I like the clothes you picked out,” Steve attempts. “They’re…nice.”

“Good. Some of them are for you.”

“What? Why?” Steve frowns.

“You don’t dress yourself properly.”

“I dress myself just fine. What are you talking about?”

“Your chest is too broad for the type of t-shirts you wear. You need to wear v-shaped necks,” the soldier informs him. “And you wear your pants too large. And every fucking thing you own is blue. You are aware there are other colors, correct?”

“Are you aware there are colors other than black?” Steve rejoins.

“Yes. There are grey, drab green, and dark red things in this bag.”

“And a bunch of black ones.”

“Black is good for blending in.”

“And you look sexy in black,” Steve says, eyeing him up and down.

The soldier scowls and lowers his chin, letting his hair fall over his face.

“You know, you’re super cute when you pout like that,” Steve laughs.

“I’m always cute. And I’m not pouting, I’m looking threatening.”

“Yeah, I feel very threatened. Where are we going now?”

“Army surplus store. I need a duffel bag and boots.”

The glass door swings open with a squeak, making the little brass bell at the top tinkle, and the familiar scent of military gear washes over Steve like a tidal wave. He finds himself suddenly immersed in memories of a past that is long gone by to everyone else, but which to him, is not all that distant. Creeping through the mist of German forests, long night marches and days spent sleeping on the ground in tents. The close camaraderie of the small, tightly-knit unit. Relying on one’s friends every day in matters of life and death. The echoes of those men’s voices rise around him, and he sees each of their faces before his eyes again.

He stops short and blinks, finding himself actually looking at their faces. Hanging on the wall above the counter is a huge poster-print of the famous Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos painting from the WWII museum. Directly below the poster, a middle-aged gentleman behind the register is chatting with an elderly man in an American Legion windbreaker and a POW-KIA-MIA baseball cap. Of course, they both recognize Steve instantly. They greet him with hearty handshakes and expressions of delight to be meeting him, and he smiles affably and stops to talk.

He normally does genuinely enjoy conversations about the old days, but as they chat blithely away about inflation and US vehicle production before 1942, his stomach is twisting with anxiety. There is no way they won’t recognize the soldier the moment they see his face. He has almost made up his mind to grab him and make a run for it, when the soldier stalks around the corner of an aisle with an armful of gear.

“…and there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it. Kids these days are too soft,” the elderly man is saying. He squints as the soldier steps up and places his selections on the counter. “Hey, you look familiar.”

“This is my friend, uh…Jimmy,” Steve cuts in. “Jimmy, this is Mr. Lee and this is Mr. Cohen, the owner of the store.”

The soldier looks at Steve, then at the two men. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you, too, Jimmy,” the gregarious Mr. Lee says, taking the soldier’s free hand and shaking it, despite the fact that it was not offered. “Wow, hell of a grip you’ve got, there.”

“Afternoon, Jimmy,” Mr. Cohen nods, as he begins to ring up the soldier’s purchases. “We were just telling Captain Rogers what an honor it is to have him visit the store. The Howling Commandos were real heroes. Every one of them.”

“Sergeant Barnes!” Mr. Lee exclaims, giving Steve a start. He pushes up his tinted spectacles, looking between the soldier and his likeness on the poster. “Look at the kid, Cohen! He’s the spitting image of Bucky Barnes!”

“He was my great uncle,” the soldier says, without skipping a beat. “I’ve been told I look like him.”

“Look like him! You could be twins!” Mr. Lee persists, as the soldier pushes some bills across the counter. “If it weren’t for all that long hippie hair, I mean. You really should get that cut, son.”

“I want to put all of these things in that bag,” the soldier says to Mr. Cohen. “Can I do that here?”

“Sure thing,” Mr. Cohen says, handing the soldier the duffel bag. He watches as he begins to pack his purchases into it, along with the clothing from the other store. “You know, my father’s unit fought alongside the 107th. He used to talk about Sergeant Barnes sometimes. Your, uh…uncle was a brave man. One of the best this country has ever seen.”

“That’s what people say,” the soldier replies stiffly, keeping his eyes fixed on what he’s doing. “I didn’t know him.”

He double-checks that he’s got everything packed and securely fastened, then he picks up the very full bag and walks away without another word. As the door swings shut behind him, Steve turns back to the two men.

“He didn’t mean to be rude,” he says apologetically. “Jimmy…he’s been overseas a while. Had it pretty rough. Hasn’t been himself since he got back.”

“We understand, Captain Rogers,” Mr. Cohen says, with a knowing nod. “But, hey, there’s a group of old-timers that meet here Wednesday evenings and spin yarns about their war days. All good men. Frontlines vets who, uh…know how to keep sensitive intel out of enemy hands. If you and Jimmy are ever in the neighborhood, they’d sure love to meet you guys.” 

“I’d like to meet them, too,” Steve smiles, shaking the two men’s hands. “It’s been great chatting with you, gentlemen. I’ll come by again soon.”

Mr. Cohen and Mr. Lee bid him cheerful goodbyes and ‘God bless Americas’ as he hurries after the soldier, who he finds standing on the sidewalk outside, staring listlessly into the middle-distance. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about that,” Steve says, looking anxiously into his face. “I should’ve realized it wasn’t a good idea to go into that kind of place. Are you ok?”

“Yes,” the soldier replies curtly. “Let’s go.”

The cab ride back to Steve’s house is silent and tense. Steve becomes increasingly concerned as the soldier continues to stare blankly at the back of the seat in front of him. His reaction to the photographs of himself from the old days had been nothing like this. He’d looked at them rather indifferently, asked if that man was Sergeant Barnes, and then put them away when Steve had become upset. Now he almost appears to be consciously submerging himself. Diving deeper beneath the ice. Steve has never felt so utterly helpless. He is sitting here beside his best friend, feeling him slip away, and he simply doesn’t have any idea what to do to stop him. His instinct is to hang onto him with everything he has, but what if that just makes it worse? He spends the remainder of the ride home anxious and internally torn.

When they are back in the house at last, Steve locks the door behind them and hangs up his keys. The soldier takes the bag directly to the bedroom and begins to stow the things in Steve’s closet. Steve waits a few minutes, then decides to go and see if he needs help.

“These are yours,” the soldier says, as Steve comes over to peer in the closet door. He pushes a pair of dark-blue jeans and a black v-neck t-shirt into his hands. “And some of these other things.”

“I thought you were joking about that,” Steve mutters, eyeing them dubiously. “How do you know they’ll even fit me? I didn’t try them on or anything.”

“Geometry, Steve.”

“What?”

“Three-dimensional mapping,” the soldier says patiently. “I know your brain does it, too. I’ve seen how you use your shield.”

Steve looks as confused as he feels. “My shield? What does that have to do with knowing clothes will fit me?”

“I can tell what will fit you because I can calculate the dimensions. Our brains are capable of processing precise angles and exact volumes in real time. That’s why you know how to make your shield strike a surface at the correct angle and velocity to come back to you.”

“It is? Huh.”

“What did you think it was? Luck?”

“No, I just never thought about it. It’s more like…an instinct.”

“Instinct is the recognition of minute patterns by the subconscious. You would be able to do it consciously, if you’d been trained.”

“It was a little tough to get training while I was frozen in the Arctic ocean, Buck. And there’s no one around anymore who fully understands what the serum did to us. I’ve had to figure all of this out pretty much on my own.”

“I do.”

“You do what?”

“I understand exactly what it did to us. I have indexes for all of our abilities and how to implement them.”

“Holy shit, Buck, you could train me,” Steve says eagerly. “I mean…if you wanted to.”

The soldier studies him for a moment, as if considering the idea. “I’ll train you. But you have to do what I tell you and not be a sarcastic jackass about it.”

“Sarcastic jackass?” Steve gasps. “The idea! You know, I’m offended that you’d even suggest such a thing.”

The soldier rolls his eyes and turns to hook another shirt onto a hanger. “Put those on. I want to see you wearing them.”

Steve arches a blonde eyebrow. “Is that part of the training?”

“Yes.”

Steve briefly considers going to the bathroom to change, realizes how ridiculous that is, and drops the clothes on the bed, where he sits to remove his boots. He strips out of his own clothes, then pulls on the dark-blue jeans. They feel sturdy and high quality, but fit more snugly than he is accustomed to. The black shirt is the same. Soft and pleasant on his skin, but rather close-fitting. The soldier steps out and stops short, looking him up and down. They’ve been naked together multiple times now, but Steve suddenly feels oddly exposed, having his body displayed to his friend like this. His face flushes with heat and he looks down at himself.

“Buck, these are way too tight,” he pleads. “I feel weird.”

“You…you look…” the soldier’s sentence trails off.

Steve looks up just as the cold, metal hand closes around his neck. He gives a startled cry as the soldier slams his back against the wall, which is stifled by the soldier’s mouth, kissing him savagely and grinding his hips against him. He pulls back and looks him up and down again.

“I guess you like the outf—” Steve begins.

His words die in his throat as the soldier’s hand clamps down on either side of his windpipe, cutting off his breath and restricting the blood flow to his brain. His head spins and his cock is instantly rigid and throbbing. He suspects it’s probably all kinds of unhealthy to be this sexually aroused by being choked, especially by a man who has tried to kill him on multiple occasions, but he can’t deny his body’s intense reaction. He also can’t hide it from the soldier, who gives a low growl and slides his human hand inside the snug waistband of Steve’s newly acquired jeans. Still holding him pinned by his neck, he looks fiercely into his eyes and begins to stroke him teasingly. Steve dazedly imagines addressing this at his next visit to his therapist.

_Yes, Dr. Barenbaum, he has tried to kill me multiple times, but I can explain. It was really fucking hot._

Just as the room around him begins to get fuzzy and disintegrate, the soldier releases him.

“Holy—fucking shit,” Steve gasps, grabbing his shoulders to steady himself.

The ghost of a smile curls the soldier’s lips. “You like that.”

Steve responds by lifting him off his feet and tossing him onto the bed. He comes down heavily on top of him, kissing him and groping his body impatiently. Without waiting for permission, he peels off the soldier’s shirt and throws it on the floor, followed by his own. The soldier allows him to undo his fly and tug his pants and underwear down around his thighs, then gives a soft moan as Steve slides down and takes him in his mouth.

He has never done this before, but he has thought about it a lot more than he’d like to admit. The reality is about what he’d imagined, except pre-ejaculate is saltier than it looks, and the head of the soldier’s cock hitting the back of his throat causes him to gag. He pulls back, wiping saliva off his chin, then swallows it again. This time he takes it slower, forcing his muscles to relax around it, till he can hold it there without gagging. Choking himself on the soldier’s cock, as it turns out, makes him so hard he can barely think.

_New York Times Exclusive: Captain America Loves Sucking Dick._

He proceeds to do so with enthusiasm, until the soldier pushes him abruptly away and rolls him onto his back. He watches, exhilarated and panting as his own jeans and underwear are yanked down, then gasps as cold lube is drizzled all over his rigid, overheated cock. He wraps his big hand around both their shafts as the soldier lowers his body onto him. The cybernetic hand closes around his throat again, choking him in earnest.

Steve stares helplessly up into his friend’s face, lost in those fierce, beautiful green eyes, the heat of his body, the rough slide of their cocks as they fuck into his tight, slick fist together. The tension builds to an agonizing peak and lingers, racking him on the bleeding edge, as spots creep over his vision and his head begins to buzz.

“Come,” the soldier says hoarsely. “Come for me.”

Steve comes on command, vision whited out, stomach muscles contracting violently, as his cock convulses and spits between them. Air bursts into his lungs as the soldier releases his throat to wring himself rapidly to climax. He feels hot fluid spatter across his stomach, then the soldier collapses on top of him, pressing their mingled semen between their bodies. Steve lies there dizzy and breathless in the euphoric haze, trying to remember where they are and what year it is, and what ever came of that pesky war thing.

“Hey, no hickeys,” he murmurs, as the soldier’s teeth sink into his neck. “Everyone will know I’m a slut.”

The soldier growls and bites him again, hard enough to leave a bruise.

“You sure are territorial,” Steve smiles, reaching up to stroke his unruly mop of dark-brown hair. “You think someone’s gonna try and steal me?”

“Fucking…gut them,” the soldier mumbles against his skin.

He allows Steve to hold and touch him for five minutes and forty-two seconds, before he twists free and lies on his back. Steve rolls onto his side and gazes at him with that stupid, happy look on his face, which makes him agitated for reasons he can’t properly index. He needs to find a useful task to perform before he says or does something that will cause Steve distress. Refer to directives.

Directive found: Take care of Steve. Proceed according to set parameters.

He pushes himself up and removes his boots and their remaining clothing, then begins to collect the various pieces of Steve’s wardrobe from the floor.

“Buck, come on,” Steve says. “What are you doing? Don’t clean up after me.”

The soldier ignores him and carries the bundle of mixed textiles away to the laundry room. He is carefully reading the laundering instructions on each label, when Steve comes in and shoves the whole pile into the washing machine. The soldier watches doubtfully as he adds some kind of liquid soap compressed into little cube-shaped packets, and sets the dial to “cold water clean.”

“There,” Steve says. “Laundry is going. Come have a shower.”

“You go first,” the soldier replies. “Your shower is too small for us to bathe together.”

Steve presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be quick.”

After Steve has gone, he remains in the laundry room, gazing curiously at the washing machine. The front has a round, glass window, through which the contents can be seen sloshing about with the water and suds, which he finds oddly soothing. He wonders if Steve really thinks his absurd floor safe is secure. He should instruct him on better methods of storing and concealing weapons, so they can be accessed quickly, without being easily discoverable to attackers. He adds this to his index under the ‘take care of Steve’ directive, then exits the laundry room and goes to the kitchen.

This area needs improvement, as well. Steve’s diet is not poor, but it’s not ideal for a man with his enhanced metabolism and muscle mass. He doesn’t consume nearly enough lean protein or leafy greens, and he tends to choose inefficient animal fats, rather than the more readily utilizable fatty-acid chains found in deep water fish and some plant oils. Steve must not be aware that his nutritional requirements are different from those of a non-augmented human. He is adding these things to the growing index under the ‘take care of Steve’ directive, when Steve emerges from the bathroom. The soldier allows himself to be kissed again, then goes to bathe.

He recalls, a minute into his shower, that hot water feels better than cold, and adjusts the temperature. Steam clouds the chrome-like surface of his titanium arm, then clears as it heats to the ambient temperature of the water. It gets very hot in combat, when the mechanisms and articulated plates are all working to respond to a multitude of rapid-fire commands, but otherwise, it stays fairly cold in comparison to his body temperature.

He wonders if Steve finds it uncomfortable to be touched by a cold, hard, metal prosthesis, rather than a warm, flesh and bone hand. This thought makes his throat constrict painfully. But if Steve disliked the prosthesis, he would communicate as much. And it would be irrelevant. The cybernetic is far stronger and more useful than even an augmented human arm. Its existence enables him to better carry out his directives. Its ability to precisely apply pressure while processing feedback from the surface it touches, for example, had been extremely expedient for choking Steve without seriously injuring him. Steve had enjoyed this, so he must not mind it.

He blinks, seeing blood running down his chest in the streaming water, then he pulls his human hand away from his body. It has been clawing at the shoulder seam of the cybernetic, where the metal and flesh are joined. His nerves choose this time to arrive at the same conclusion, and send him a barrage of helpful information regarding the stinging, tearing pain caused by the lacerations he has just made in his skin.

Many years ago, this had been a regular occurrence, but he has not discovered his human hand engaged in this destructive occupation since…index not found. It has been several decades. Fortunately, he is not susceptible to infection of any kind, and his extremely rapid healing factor will have the cells knit back together within minutes. Yet another reason the cybernetic is preferable. Cybernetic hands do not tremble with fatigue or emotion, they do not lose function unless very severely damaged, and they certainly do not do things without permission, like claw at their body’s skin or pet Steve’s stupid, blonde hair.

If that pathetic child Barnes had already been in possession of a cybernetic limb or two, he would not have been so easily taken and held captive in the cold, dark place. His lip curls with revulsion. Those old fools in the surplus store called Barnes brave. The soldier knows better. Sergeant James Barnes was a worthless coward. He screamed and wept and begged for mercy, like the weak and groveling creature he was. He felt nothing but fear and pain, and shame at his own powerlessness. He begged for death, before the end. Before he left the soldier to deal with the insistent echoes of his terror, his torment, his wretched, aching hopelessness, his empty longing for someone or something he would never have again. These feelings stab through the soldier’s chest like blades made of ice.

He hates Barnes with every fiber of his being. Wishes he could kill him and end his misery. But the soldier cannot choose to decommission itself. He has tried before. His brow furrows. But Steve…he loved Barnes. His Bucky. His best friend. And when he calls the soldier by that name, it doesn’t fracture his indexes and send his mind into chaos anymore. Mrs. Rogers had called him by that name, too. It felt right when she said it. Warm and solid, and…true. He realizes with a jolt that it feels true when Steve uses it, too. It’s not true, though. Is it? No. It sounds true when Steve uses it, because Steve believes it. Steve believes he is…that man. He attempts his indexes, despite the fact that they have been in a state of irascible defiance for days.

Check index: Self.

Index found. Self: Winter Soldier. Augmented human. Cybernetically enhanced. Assassin, elite sniper, combat tactician, infiltration specialist, battlefield management specialist, espionage specialist, explosives and munitions specialist, armed and unarmed close-quarters combat specialist, linguistics—

Enough. Check index: James Buchanan Barnes.

Index found. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes: American WWII commando. Winter Soldier. Augmented human. Cybernetically enhanced. Assassin, elite sniper, combat tactician, infiltration specialist—

Enough, god damn it.

The soldier slams the knob to shut off the shower, cursing his indexes in Russian as he dries his body irritably with one of Steve’s stupid blue towels. When he steps out of the bathroom, Steve is on the phone, looking angry and pale. The anger is not directed at him, nor at the person he is speaking to. It’s his Captain America, “injustice has been done” kind of anger. Steve, apparently, possesses the singular ability to look virtuous and heroically indignant, even stark naked with his hair a tousled mess and bruises all over his neck.

“Understood,” he says into the phone, keeping his eyes on the soldier. “Thank you, Agent Hill.”

He takes the phone away from his ear and taps it a couple of times, then holds it up for the soldier to look at. The image on the screen is security-camera footage from what appears to be the interior of an office. It shows the Winter Soldier, masked, but recognizable due to the leather chest armor, long hair, and of course, the cybernetic arm. Or a reasonable enough imitation of it to deceive human eyes looking at grainy video footage. He is dragging three bound people, a woman and two men, into the center of the room. He puts them on their knees, then steps behind them and shoots all three in the back of the head in quick succession, with a silenced pistol. He walks away as the bodies crumple to the ground.

Steve lowers the phone. “This video is from a few hours ago. The people killed were former SHIELD employees working admin jobs for the DOJ.”

The soldier stares at him, dead-eyed and expressionless. 

“Why would Hydra set you up? If they want you back, why would they try to expose you to us?”

“To flush me out,” the soldier answers. “Show me there’s nowhere to run but back to them.”

“At least we can be sure they don’t know you’re with me,” Steve sighs. “There’s no way they’d try to pull something like this if they thought we had you in custody.”

“They won’t stop. They will keep killing people until they get what they want.”

“That’s not going to happen. I am not letting you go.”

“So, you’re going to stand by and let innocent people die because of a personal attachment.”

“Don’t mistake my refusal to turn you over to them for sentimentality,” Steve says curtly. “I’ve read Hydra’s files on the Winter Soldier. I know exactly what you’re capable of. Many, many more innocent people will die if they get their hands on you.”

“Then let your people kill me. Out in the open, so Hydra sees it happen. I won’t run.”

“We are not in the business of public executions.”

“Maybe I won’t give you a choice.”

“You don’t want to do this with me, Buck. No one is going to take you away again. That includes you.”

“You’re trying to hold onto a dead man, Steve. Your Bucky died seventy years ago, serving his country honorably. Why can’t you just let me—let him rest in peace?”

Steve’s blue eyes flash with anger. “How can you even ask me that? How can you look me in the face, after everything we’ve been through, and tell me you’d rather die than fight back?”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know what I am.”

“Yes, I do. I know—”

“No, you don’t! You think that file is all they have on me? It would take a warehouse to hold the records of what I’ve done. I am a weapon. That’s all I am.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“But you do. You have a choice.”

“You’re wrong. There is no choice for me, Buck. Not when it comes to you.”

The soldier turns away. “There is a river of blood on my hands, Steve. Yours are still clean. Don’t drag yourself down into the muck for me. I’m not worth it.”

“You are to me.” Steve turns him back around and wraps him up in his stupid, strong arms. “I’m with you—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, trying push him away.

“—to the end of the line.”

His muscles go slack and he sags against Steve’s chest.

It’s not a reset code. It can’t be. It produces a similar response—pacification, submission—but its core is different. Instead of obliterating his indexes and leaving a blank slate awaiting a directive, it seems to carry its own inherent directive. Loyalty.

A feeling cannot be a directive. Reassess.

Loyalty: Faithfulness. Fidelity to a nation, cause, philosophy, country, group, or person.

Assessment: Loyalty is a valid directive.

God damn it.

Stupid, noble Steve and his stupid loyalty. He’s going to get them both killed. And maybe bird man, too, which wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“You fucking asshole,” the soldier sighs. “What’s your plan, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan Lee Cameo! 
> 
> In loving memory. You were a superhero to me.


	6. Soldat

“Hey, guys,” a smooth, smoky female voice says over the comms earpieces. “I just wanted to restate for the record that this is a really stupid plan.”

“Thanks, Widow,” Steve’s voice returns. “Falcon, how’s it going?”

“Maintaining visual on Mittens,” Sam’s voice answers. “No hostile activity.”

“That’s not my fucking code name,” the soldier growls.

Sam snickers. “What’s that, Mittens? I didn’t copy.”

“Cut it out, you two,” Steve says sharply. “This isn’t working. He’s gonna have to show himself.”

“Risky,” Natasha replies. “Our guys might get to him first.”

“That’s why I’m trusting you to hold them off,” Steve says. “Mittens, you’re on. Careful. No civilian casualties. Got it?”

Far below, on the bustling city sidewalk, the soldier peels off his hooded jacket and drops it on the ground, shaking out his long, dark hair. His cybernetic arm glimmers in the reflected streetlights, the brilliant crimson star flashing on the silver surface. Passersby gasp and exclaim in astonishment as they hurry to get out of his way. As if it’s nothing more than an idle whim, he tears a city mailbox from its heavy bolts and tosses it into the street. Tires squeal, followed by the crunch of impact and shriek of twisting metal, as several vehicles swerve to avoid it and collide with others.

“God damn it, I said be careful!” Steve barks.

“You want it to look real or not?” the soldier retorts, as he jumps onto the roof of a yellow taxi.

He draws his Škorpion machine pistol (returned by Natasha Romanoff, that little thief) from the back of his shoulder holster, hangs fire for a split second, so the driver has time to dive out into the street, then fills the empty vehicle with bullets. Shouts and screams erupt, and the area is plunged into general chaos. The soldier hops down from the roof of the taxi and continues on, firing bursts from the machine pistol wherever they’re sure not to actually hit anyone.

“DC Metro has every available unit headed your way,” Natasha says. “Our guys, too. Time to get off the street, Mittens.”

“Da, navernoye,” the soldier replies drily.

The machine pistol clatters onto the asphalt as he pivots and vanishes into the deep shadows between buildings.

“Falcon, keep an eye on him,” Steve says. “I’ll be on the ground in ten seconds.”

“Copy, Cap,” Sam says.

“Widow, get ready.”

“Tak tochno,” Natasha chirps.

“And everyone stop speaking Russian over my comms.”

Steve swings down and drops from the fifth-floor fire-escape on which he’s been perched, then makes a dash for the intersection. He arrives just as sirens and flashing lights fill the area. Metro police vehicles, flanked by a fleet of armored, black SUVs. Agent Hill jumps out of one of these and is the first to reach him.

“I didn’t see him,” Steve pants. “Anyone get a visual?”

“Last sighted headed north on eighth,” Agent Hill says, then frowns, putting a finger on her comms earpiece. “Strike that. Agent Romanoff has eyes on him. Headed southeast on Massachusetts.”

“Lost visual on Mittens,” Sam says in Steve’s ear. “Parking garage three blocks northwest. Unmarked vehicles incoming.”

“I’m going after him,” Steve says to Agent Hill. “You guys follow me, but keep those city cops at a safe distance.”

“Yes, sir,” Agent Hill says, jogging back toward her vehicle.

Steve leaps into a sprint down Massachusetts avenue. As soon as he has put enough distance between himself and the following vehicles, he darts off the right side of the road and rapidly scales to the roof of a six-story apartment building.

“Falcon, I need a lift at Mass and tenth,” he says. “Widow, keep ‘em busy as long as you can.”

The soldier moves swiftly through the parking garage, keeping low and using vehicles for cover. He hears the bird man say unmarked vehicles are incoming, and races for the stairs. He ascends three levels before the squeak of tires begins to echo through the place. Five before the vehicles have reached the second tier. He rounds the corner for the top-level exit and falls back suddenly, stunned by an impossibly swift and powerful blow to the face.

Strong hands haul him up from the ground and toss him out of the stairwell into a parked vehicle, the side of which buckles with the force of the impact, shattering its windows and raining glass all around him. He rolls out of the way of a boot aimed at his ribcage and leaps up. A large, calloused hand is already around his neck, lifting him off his feet.

He brings his titanium fist down on the man’s forearm, with force that would’ve snapped an ordinary human’s bones. It’s enough to get his assailant to cry out, but not to release him. The man slams the soldier into the concrete wall and holds him pinned by his neck, boots dangling a foot off the ground.

“Privyet, soldat,” he rumbles, as his hand squeezes tighter around the soldier’s throat.

The soldier stares at him in horror. That Hydra would awaken even one of the others is madness. How desperate are they to get back their precious Winter Soldier?

“Josef,” he manages to choke out. “Ya ne—ponimayu.”

“You do not need to understand,” another voice says, in Russian-accented English. “You only need to comply.”

The soldier’s blood runs cold. The Hydra vehicles have pulled up all around them, and a tall, gaunt, grey-haired man in a grey suit and overcoat is approaching. Major Damir Yukashev, his indexes supply helpfully. His legs and arms liquefy.

“Josef, hold him,” Major Yukashev says. “Let me take a look at him.”

The towering Josef lowers him to the ground and pins his arms securely behind him, despite the fact that he’s not actually resisting. Yukashev leans close, flaunting his lack of fear for the great Winter Soldier, as he inspects him.

“You are clean,” he says. “Who has been bathing and feeding you?”

The soldier makes no response.

Yukashev deals him a sharp, backhanded blow to the face. “Where have you been hiding? Who has been taking care of you?”

The soldier’s mouth remains defiantly closed.

“Very well, we will do this the easy way,” Yukashev says. From his breast pocket, he draws out a small, leather bound book, from which he begins to read. “ _Lyubov´, lyubov´, vnemli molen´ya_.”

The soldier’s eyes snap to life and his body jerks reflexively. “No.”

“ _Poshli mne vnov´, svoi viden´ya_.”

“No!” he rasps, straining impotently against Josef’s iron grip. “No, please!”

“ _I poutru, vnov´ upoyennyy, puskay umru_.”

As Yukashev completes the stanza and shuts the book, the soldier ceases struggling. His body goes still and passive, and his distressed expression dissolves into a vacant stare.

Yukashev peers into his face. “Soldat, are you with us?”

“Ya gotov otvechat´,” the soldier replies, in a flat, toneless voice.

“Excellent. Josef, you may release him.”

Josef looses his hold and steps back warily. The soldier stands idle, gazing into the middle-distance

“You have caused us quite a bit of trouble, my boy,” Yukashev sighs. “Fortunately, we have developed a method for making you permanently compliant. Look at Josef, here. He was a beast before. Now he is such a good boy.”

The soldier looks blankly at Josef, then returns to his at-rest position.

“You will be a good boy too, soldat. Once you are properly reconditioned, you will—”

Yukashev breaks off, as at that moment, there is a strange roaring sound, which causes everyone but the soldier to look up. To the dismay of the dozen or so black-clad Hydra enforcers, and the supreme annoyance of Major Yukashev, a man wearing what appears to be a pair of rocket-powered wings is alighting atop one of their vehicles.

“Hey fellas,” he calls out. “I hate to interrupt, but I’m looking for a lost cat. Answers to the name of Mittens. Any of you seen him?”

“Kill him,” Yukashev says, waving his hand. “Soldat, Josef, we are leaving.”

Popping bursts of automatic rifle fire ring out as the black-clad enforcers hasten to carry out the order. The man throws a metal wing out, shielding himself from the hail of bullets, and rolls behind a concrete barrier to return fire. The enforcers run after him, as the soldier and Josef follow Major Yukashev toward one of the waiting Hydra vehicles. Yukashev stops short, cursing, as several small explosions toss the majority of the enforcers backward, stunned or dead.

“Josef, go and help them! Soldat, with me!”

He turns toward his vehicle again as Josef sprints off, with surprising speed and agility for a man of his bulk. Then, hearing a sound like a hollow bell being struck, Yukashev whips back around, just in time to see something like a preposterously oversized metal Frisbee careening off Josef’s head, sending him sprawling on his face.

“What now!” he roars, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“I heard there was a lost cat up here,” an absurdly smug, disgustingly American voice replies. “I wasn’t doing anything, so I thought I’d help out.”

Yukashev turns and looks the tall, broad-shouldered, blue-clad man up and down, with a snort of derisive laughter.

“How very serendipitous that you have come,” he says. “And that the soldier will have the opportunity to redeem its failure so soon. Soldat, complete your mission. Kill this man.”

The soldier wheels slowly around to face the blue-clad American. An icy, unsettling smile curls the corners of his lips. Then he reaches up with both hands and does something to his ears.

“Sorry, what was that?” he says, turning back to Yukashev. “I didn’t hear you.”

He opens his hand so that his frankly petrified would-be captor can see what appear to be two small, black comms earbuds lying in his titanium palm. Before Yukashev has time to blink, the palm closes into a fist and strikes him full in the mouth, with enough force to crack his teeth and knock him senseless and bleeding onto the concrete. The soldier’s sidearm is already in his hand. He stands over the supine man and levels it at his head.

“That’s enough,” Steve says. “We got him. He’s going to rot in a maximum security federal prison for the rest of his life.”

“The rest of his life?” the soldier sneers, drawing back the hammer.

“Buck, please. Please don’t do this. You don’t have to kill anyone. You can choose not to be a killer anymore.”

God damn it.

The soldier wheels slowly around to face Steve. Stupid, blonde, blue-eyed Steve. The man who destroyed his mind. Turned his indexes into a roaring chaos of pain and doubt. Made him remember that repulsive worm Barnes. Calls him by his name.

Steve stares, dumbstruck, as the soldier’s sidearm comes up, and he fires a single shot. For a moment, he stands blinking at him uncomprehendingly. Then the heavy thud of a body crumpling to the ground behind him makes him start and curse. He looks down to see the huge, muscular man who he’d stunned with the shield, lying on his back, with a black-bladed knife in his hand and a bullet hole in his forehead.

“Ok,” he says shakily, looking up at the soldier. “I’ll give you that one.”

“Hey, thanks for the help, guys!” Sam shouts, staggering out from behind a burning Hydra vehicle. “I fought a whole platoon of these fuckers, but I guess y’all had your hands full with the old man and the giant!”

“Bird man is wounded,” the soldier says.

He dashes over and catches Sam just as he topples, bleeding profusely from his right side. Steve is a second behind him, already on the phone with Agent Hill, ordering a medivac chopper. Sam gives a hoarse cry of pain as the soldier’s cybernetic hand clamps onto his flesh like a vise, applying firm pressure to the wound.

“God—damn it, Mittens,” he groans, through his clenched teeth. “That shit—really hurts.”

“It’s preventing you from bleeding out, bird.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

“Are you going to die?”

“Not a—ah! Not a fuckin’ chance.”

“Then yes, I’m enjoying it.”

“I—hate you,” Sam pants.

The soldier almost smiles. “I know.”


	7. Falling

The sky hangs dark and heavy, above a bleak and barren waste. A land swept white with snow, where mountains cut like icy teeth into the horizon. Here the weary soldier wanders, silent and alone. Before him, the chasm splits the earth from east to west. Amidst the jewel-red stars, a white star burns, clear and bright. The beauty of it pierces his heart.

He lowers his eyes to look out across the chasm, to find the figure on the other side, the deep blue shadow amid the whirling white. The figure stretches out its hand. Before the soldier’s feet now lies a bridge of rope and planks, that twists and sways in the wailing winds.

The sight of it fills him with black, unreasoning terror. His footsteps falter on the brink. He wants to cross the bridge but he is afraid. He will fall again. He will fall into the chasm. He will be left alone in the cold, dark place forever.

He opens his mouth, but he has no voice to cry out over the howling of the storm. The cold sinks deep into his body, freezes his lungs and dulls his mind. His heartbeat slows and stills. Overhead, the white star glitters in the black vault of the sky. He wakes up screaming in agony and desperation, thrashing against some powerful bonds that constrict the more he fights, threatening to crush him.

“I’m right here,” a voice is saying. “I’ve got you, you’re not falling. You’re not falling.”

As the storm clears from his mind, his body goes limp and he collapses. Steve holds him close, pressing kisses into to his unruly mop of hair.

“I’m with you, Buck,” his low voice vibrates through his chest. “It’s ok. You’re ok.”

The soldier lies slack against Steve’s body, panting and slick with cold sweat, listening to Steve’s strong, regular heartbeat and feeling the heat from his skin.

“Did I—did I hurt you?” he asks, when he has ceased trembling enough to speak.

“Nah, I’m ok,” Steve replies. “You were just having a nightmare.”

The soldier pushes himself up and sits cross-legged, staring down into his open palms. He is wearing Steve’s grey sweatpants again, and one of his black t-shirts, and his long hair hangs over his face, obscuring it from view. Steve sees a little drop of water splash onto the titanium surface of his cybernetic prosthesis. He sits up too, observing him with concern, but being careful not to touch him or intrude into his space.

“I didn’t fight,” the soldier says finally.

Steve frowns. “You didn’t fight?”

“When they had me in the parking garage. Before Yukashev started reading the code.” The soldier shakes his head and reaches up to wipe his face with the back of his human hand. “He hit me. He talked to me like a _thing_. I should have been angry, but I was afraid. Just…afraid. If bird man hadn’t been there to play the music, they’d have taken me. Because I was too afraid to fight back.”

“It’s ok that you were afraid, Buck,” Steve says softly. “You were held captive and abused by those people for years and years. They trained you to be afraid of them because they were afraid of what you would do if they lost control.”

“Abused?” the soldier sniffles. “What does that mean.”

“It means they hurt you. They forced you to do things you didn’t want to do.”

He obviously understands the definition of the word, but out of habit, he runs it against his indexes.

Abused: Used to bad effect or for a bad purpose. Treated with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.

Assessment: The soldier has been subject to abuse. Perpetrators of abuse include; Hydra superiors, Hydra handlers, Hydra scientific staff.

Hot tears begin to roll down his face again.

“Why do my eyes keep doing this,” he says, dashing them away irritably. “Weeping serves no biological purpose.”

“It does, though,” Steve says. “It cleans you out so you can start healing. Like getting the infection out of a wound.”

“That’s…stupid.”

Steve weeps all the time, which is likely why he’s defending the practice. The soldier is thinking this, when he gives a start, feeling Steve’s warm hand touch his cold, metallic forearm.

“Your prosthetic, you can feel that?” Steve asks.

“Yes. It processes sensation like an organic limb.”

“How?”

“Sensation is necessary for performing precision tasks,” he says in a flat monotone, as if reciting by rote. “Each plate contains multiple sensors, independently sequenced and highly sensitive to pressure and vibration.”

“Does it—can it feel pain?”

“It doesn’t feel pain unless there is severe damage. It can withstand extreme temperatures and force, and isn’t vulnerable to bullet penetration.”

Fascinated, Steve slides his palm along the smooth, chrome-like surface. The soldier shudders and draws his breath in sharply. Steve begins to pull away his hand, but the soldier catches it.

“Don’t stop. Please. It…feels good.”

The soldier sits still, watching him warily, as Steve takes the cybernetic hand in his. He traces his fingertips over each finely articulated metal plate in the palm and wrist, and along the grooves between them.

“What is it made of?” he asks, stroking and gently pressing the plates of the forearm.

“Titanium and steel with internal electronic components.”

“Is it heavy?”

“It weighs forty-six pounds. Is that heavy?”

“Kind of. How much do you weigh?”

“Three-hundred and six pounds.”

“Jesus, you weigh two-hundred and sixty pounds even without it?”

“Yes. So do you. Our bone and tissue are denser than non-augmented humans.”

Steve smirks. “How do you know how much I weigh?”

“I have carried you.”

“I’ve carried you, too. I can’t tell what things weigh just by picking them up.”

“Your processing system is inferior to mine,” the soldier says, then he purses his lips petulantly. “It is when mine is functioning properly, anyway.”

“It’s funny that we’re the same size, now, isn’t it?” Steve says. “You were always so much bigger than me.”

The soldier eyes him skeptically. “You were smaller than me, before you were augmented?”

“Yeah.”

“How much smaller?”

“A lot,” Steve grins.

He has worked his hand up to the bicep of the prosthetic now, where it is covered by the sleeve of the soldier’s t-shirt. The soldier leans back and pulls his shirt off over his head. At the sight of the horribly scarred flesh around the shoulder, Steve’s face contorts with pain and he closes his eyes.

“Why does it hurt you to see my scars?” the soldier asks.

“Because I love you, and when you love someone, their suffering hurts you, too.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll keep them covered.”

“No, Buck, I don’t want you to hide those things from me,” Steve says, staying his hand as he moves to replace his shirt. “I want to share your pain with you. I want to help you.”

“My nerve fibers were damaged in the process of attaching the cybernetic,” the soldier replies flatly. “They malfunction often, and I feel pain. You feeling pain because of that won’t help me.”

Steve sighs. “Ok, Buck. What will help you?”

“I don’t know. I have no indexes for how to relieve my own pain, only to treat injury in order to reduce or prevent permanent damage.”

Steve studies his face for a moment. Then cautiously, he reaches out and lays his hand on the cybernetic shoulder. The soldier blinks, but makes no move to stop him. Steve extends his thumb and moves it along the line of a scar, emanating from the seam where the metal and flesh are joined. He feels a tremor pass through the soldier’s body.

“You’re not used to being touched like this, are you.”

“No. I was only touched to be cleaned, repaired, or corrected. And during combat training.”

Steve continues to work his thumb over the spiderweb of mutilated tissue, till the soldier’s eyes droop and fall shut. He moves closer. Letting the soldier’s forehead rest on his opposite shoulder, he cranes his neck down and kisses the scarred skin as he massages it, gradually applying more pressure. The soldier gives a soft moan and bites into Steve’s neck. This seems to be a positive signal, so Steve increases the pressure a bit more. The soldier responds by biting harder till Steve hisses, then releasing the bite and moving to another spot, hot breath panting over Steve’s skin as he digs his teeth in, just hard enough to leave a bruise. He reaches out his human hand to hold onto Steve’s waist and pulls himself into his lap, wrapping his legs and arms tightly around him. Warm tears soak into the neckband of Steve’s t-shirt.

“Steve…I don’t want you to feel pain,” the soldier whispers, between heavy, trembling breaths. “If anyone tries to hurt you…I’ll gut them. I’ll cut their throats and hang their carcasses like deer.”

Despite the unorthodox nature of this expression of affection, Steve finds his throat aching and tears filling his eyes.

“Just say you’ll stay, Buck,” he whispers back. “Please, don’t leave me again.”

This seems to distress the soldier, and he lifts his head, looking anxiously into Steve’s face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, now that the federal prosecutor has all the evidence, you’re going to be a free man. I hope you’ll stay with me. It’s your choice, but…I hope that’s what you’ll choose to do.”

The soldier looks away, blinking rapidly, as his systems attempt to process this idea.

Choose: Select freely and after consideration. Decide on a course of action, typically after rejecting alternatives.

Assessment: The soldier must choose how to proceed.

Refer to directives.

Directives not found. The soldier must choose how to proceed.

The soldier must choose.

He must choose.

He has a choice.

But his choice was made the moment he abandoned his mission, and fell with him into the chasm.

He looks into Steve’s bright blue eyes again. “I want…I want to stay. With you.”

As Steve had predicted, once the full gravity of his situation is explained to him (and his dental surgeries are completed) Major Yukashev proves to be a fairly cooperative witness. When his testimony, alongside the already extensive evidence, begins to be reviewed in detail, the federal prosecutor’s office informs Mr. Stark’s attorneys that Sergeant Barnes is still considered a person of interest, but will not be actively sought for questioning at this time. Mr. Stark’s attorneys, in turn, assure Captain Rogers that when they are through with the case, Sergeant Barnes will be more than exonerated, he will be a candidate for a Medal of Honor.

They do advise, however, that the hearings will be a lengthy process, and suggest that he and Sergeant Barnes lay low in New York for a while. Mr. Stark has a nice little place they can stay. All they need to do is say yes. Since it’s only a temporary situation, and all the packing and moving and storage will be seen to by professionals, Steve agrees. Soon after, he and the soldier depart Washington DC for New York, and he tries his best not to hope too much that bringing him home will bring him back.

They arrive to find that Mr. Stark’s idea of a ‘nice little place’ apparently means a massive penthouse apartment on the fifty-seventh floor of Stark Tower, in which Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are invited to stay indefinitely, as personal guests of the proprietor. This initially makes Steve uneasy, but he accepts the offer as it is made in kindness, and because he knows for a fact that Howard Stark’s son has more money than god.

“What do you think?” Steve asks, as they reenter the living room, after inspecting the bedrooms.

The soldier looks at him blankly.

“About the place,” Steve clarifies.

“Seems reasonably secure,” the soldier says. “The doors are reinforced against bullet penetration, and the biometric locks are acceptable. There are too many windows and they’re too large.”

“Oh, the windows are bulletproof. I forgot to tell you. And they can’t be seen into from outside.”

“Are they resistant to explosives?”

“I don’t know, Buck, probably.” Steve flops down on the black leather sofa and reclines his head on the cushioned arm, watching as the soldier goes to stand by the aforementioned floor-to-ceiling windows, which comprise an entire wall of the living area. “I thought you were afraid of heights.”

“Why would I be afraid of heights?” the soldier asks, gazing out the window.

“You, uh…you were when we were kids.”

“Children are afraid of a lot of things.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve says, relieved to dodge the topic. “Hey, which bedroom do you want?”

“Which bedroom do you want?” the soldier counters, turning to look at him.

“I don’t really care. You pick.”

The soldier considers this for a moment. “I want you to choose one, so I can say that was the one I wanted, and sleep there with you anyway.”

Steve’s handsome face breaks into one of those stupid, sunny smiles that makes the soldier’s stomach do a nervous, flipping thing and makes the back of his neck feel hot. He scowls and stalks over to the sofa, where he climbs over Steve and lies stretched out on top of him.

“Oh, you’re cuddly now, are you?” Steve laughs.

“No. I wanted to lie down here and you were in the way.”

“I can get up if you want.” Steve moves to sit up, but the soldier growls and pushes him back down. He laughs again and wraps his arms around him. “Or I can stay here.”

“Steve?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you laugh at me when I say things that aren’t intended to be funny?”

“Laugh at you?”

“When I answered your question about the bedrooms. You laughed at me.”

“No, I smiled because what you said made me happy.”

“Oh.”

“And it was really cute.”

“I don’t…like that word.”

“Why?”

“Because you use it when you think I’m being weird.”

“You’re always being weird, Buck.”

“I don’t know how to be not weird.”

“I don’t want you to. I like you the way you are.”

“No, you like me the way I was. The way you remember me, before I was…this.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says, craning his neck to look down into his face. “Hey. Look at me.”

The soldier raises his large, green eyes and looks up at him.

“That’s not true, Buck. You’re my best friend, and the person I care most about in the entire world. Memory or not, you are you. Ok?”

“Ok, Steve,” the soldier says wearily.

“Why don’t you believe me?” Steve says, laying a hand on his cheek.

“I don’t understand what you mean when you say ‘you are you’, because I don’t know who I am.”

“But I do. That’s why it makes me smile when you say those things. It’s because you’re being honest about what you think. That’s you being yourself.”

“Oh.”

“And yourself also happens to be a little weird.”

“Myself wants to either punch you really hard, or have sex with you. Is that weird?”

“Actually, that sounds pretty normal for us.”

The soldier is silent for a moment. “Yeah, it’s sex. I want to have sex with you. Fuck me.”

“Christ, I could listen to you say that all day,” Steve breathes, leaning down to kiss him. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me,” the soldier purrs, between Steve’s increasingly urgent kisses. “I want you. Fuck me.”

“How about we try out our new bedroom.”

“Bedroom. Here. Kitchen. Don’t care.”

The soldier pulls Steve’s shirt off over his head and slides down to press his mouth to the hard ridges of his abdomen, caressing the smooth skin with his tongue as he digs in with his teeth. Steve’s skin tastes good. He wants to taste Steve’s cock. Swallow it. Choke on it till he blacks out. This idea seems potentially hazardous, but his mouth is watering and his hands are already unfastening Steve’s pants.

Steve gasps and his hips twitch as the soldier’s mouth closes around the swollen head. The soldier laves his tongue over it, tasting the salty tang of pre-ejaculate fluid before he sucks him in to the back of his throat, then bobs up to tongue the head again.

“Holy shit,” Steve pants. “That feels—so fucking good.”

“Fuck my mouth,” the soldier says.

“What?”

“Fuck my mouth,” he repeats, taking Steve’s hands and placing them on his head. “Do it.”

Steve hesitates, so the soldier swallows him again, then goes perfectly still, holding his cock in his throat till Steve’s muscles shake and he groans. Finally, Steve’s willpower snaps. Gripping the soldier’s head with both hands, he pounds his cock into the back of his throat, over and over, fucking his mouth like a machine, while the soldier drools all over his abdomen. Finally, he pushes it as far in as it will go and holds it. The soldier feels it throb and convulse as it fills his mouth with bursts of hot, salty fluid. He forces his throat open to swallow it, then pulls away and gazes down at Steve. He is so beautiful, lying there flushed and panting, all big blue eyes and tousled blonde hair, and soft, pink skin. Looking at him makes the soldier’s chest ache and his eyes sting. He pulls Steve’s pants and underwear the rest of the way off and pushes his legs apart. 

“What are you—what’s happening,” Steve says nervously.

“I want to fuck you, Steve,” the soldier says, stroking his thighs. “I want to be inside you.”

Steve swallows hard. “Oh. But, I, uh…I’ve never been…you know.”

“Penetrated?”

“Yeah. That.”

“I have.”

“I know, jackass,” Steve laughs. “That doesn’t mean _I’m_ not scared. Will it…will it hurt?”

“Yes. But it’s not bad pain.”

“How can it be not bad pain?”

“I can’t tell you. If you trust me, I can show you.”

“Ok, Buck,” Steve says, looking up into his eyes. “I trust you.”

The soldier takes his hands and pulls him to his feet. “Bedroom. I want to fuck you in our bed.”

Steve grins. “Which one?”

The soldier answers by lifting him bodily off the ground and carrying him into the northeast bedroom, where he tosses him onto the bed. He strips off his own clothing and climbs on top of him, holding him down and kissing him with an urgent, fevered intensity that thrills and almost frightens Steve. He is normally so passive, that Steve had nearly forgotten how physically powerful he really is. This man could seriously hurt him. He has seriously hurt him. But he looks up into those green eyes and his anxiety dissipates instantly. His tense muscles relax and he lets his legs be pushed apart. Lets himself be touched and caressed and adored.

The soldier rolls him onto his stomach and pulls his hips up, spreading his ass with both hands. Steve’s head spins as a hot, wet tongue laps the sensitive rim of his asshole. He gasps as it pushes just inside, then withdraws to draw tantalizing circles before it pushes in again. The tongue goes away and cold lubricant is drizzled onto his overheated skin. A finger slides inside him, then another, working in and out till he’s panting and begging, pushing himself back on the soldier’s hand. The hand draws away and he feels something warm and blunt press against the opening.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” the soldier says evenly. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I—I think so.”

He grips the bedsheets with both hands, giving a soft cry as the head of the soldier’s cock pushes through the resistant ring of muscle. It hurts more than he expected. It doesn’t feel dangerous, but it’s a burning, uncomfortable pain. The soldier pauses, patiently waiting as Steve acclimates. He feels his muscles begin to relax, and the burning sensation ebbs to a dull ache. The soldier pushes a little deeper, then a little more, going slow, giving Steve’s taut insides time to stretch around his shaft, till his pelvis is pressed flush against his ass.

Steve’s skin is already slick with perspiration. The soldier’s cock isn’t quite as large as his own, but it feels impossibly massive, thick, and heavy inside him. He groans through his teeth as the soldier begins to thrust, sliding slowly in and out of his tight, slick hole. It hurts, but it’s not a bad pain. It’s a full, aching, stretching sensation, like being split in half, but in a good way. The soldier takes hold of his hips and thrusts deeper, raking the blunt head of his cock over the spot that makes Steve moan and shudder.

“Ha—harder,” he pants.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Harder…fuck me.”

The soldier increases his speed and force. His hips beat rhythmically against Steve’s ass and his shaft thrums mercilessly over his prostate. Steve’s own cock is rigid and throbbing, leaking all over the bed below him. His balls feel tight and full, and the aching sensation inside is building with each thrust, like his gut is winding itself up in a knot. Suddenly, all of his muscles tense up at once. He gives a strangled cry and comes so hard his vision goes black, his cock convulsing and spurting all over the mattress, without being touched even once. The soldier is still pounding into him, fucking him through the spasms, till finally he thrusts deep and holds it, flooding his insides with bursts of warm, slippery fluid.

“You came,” the soldier says, hoarse and out of breath. “You came—on my cock.”

“Seems that way. I didn’t even know I could do that.”

The soldier pulls out carefully and rolls Steve onto his back, then his brow furrows. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah. I liked it a lot,” Steve smiles. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re…you have…tears. I thought I hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me. They’re not sad tears.”

“How can tears be not sad tears?”

“The same way pain can be not bad pain, I guess.”

The soldier gazes into the middle-distance for a moment, then lies down on his back and spreads his arms. “Come here. I want to touch you.”

“Oh, so you put your dick in me one time and now you think you’re the boss of me.”

“How many times would make me the boss?”

“I don’t think that’s the way it works, Buck,” Steve says, resting his head in the crook of the soldier’s neck.

The soldier lays silent, staring at the ceiling for six minutes. This is the usual extent of his tolerance for being held this way, and out of habit, Steve moves to get up. The soldier’s arms close around him and stay him.

“Wow, you are extra cuddly today,” Steve laughs. “Usually by now you’re shoving me away and complaining about how hot you are.”

“Your body produces an unreasonable amount of heat. And I am not cuddly.”

“Oh, you’re not, are you.”

“I thought you might want me to be affectionate. Being penetrated for the first time is significant for most people.”

“Was it for you?” Steve asks, before he can think to stop himself.

The soldier continues to stare expressionlessly at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Steve’s stomach turns and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force away all the horrifying possibilities carried in these three words. He fails miserably.

“Steve,” the soldier says, after a moment. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” Steve sniffles. “It’s…allergies.”

“Your augmentations prevent anaphylactic responses,” he says, then pauses. “It was before. Before Hydra. I’d remember, otherwise.”

“I see,” Steve answers.

“But…I did have sex with another Hydra operative.” He regrets his frankness the moment he sees Steve’s stricken expression, but it’s too late to back out of it now, so he forges ahead. “High-stress combat situation, followed immediately by isolation together awaiting extraction. It was almost inevitable.”

Steve swallows hard. “So they didn’t…it was…”

“No, they didn’t know. I’m sure there would have been unpleasant consequences, if they found out.” Steve looks relieved again and the soldier suddenly understands the source of his anxiety. “I did it because I wanted to. He—we wanted to have sex. With each other.”

“Ok,” Steve says, breathing a tremulous sigh. “Thank you for telling me. I know you don’t like to talk about these things.”

“If it helps you to know I wasn’t sexually abused, on top of everything else they did to me, then I want you to know.”

“It does, Buck. It helps a lot. But…can I ask a stupid question?”

“I’m sure you can.”

“How do you know the first time was before Hydra, if you can’t remember it?”

“I have an index for the physical act, with no attached reference for the circumstances.”

“Oh. Christ. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I prefer it that way.”

“Why?”

“Because the only sex partner I want to remember is you.”

Another gut-punch and Steve’s face is wet again, but for an extremely different reason than a moment ago. He pulls the soldier into a kiss and holds him tightly for as long as he allows it, which is three minutes and forty-four seconds. Then the soldier disentangles himself and goes away to bathe. Steve wishes he liked being held and touched more, but all in all, this is a vast improvement in his tolerance for verbal communication and physical contact since the night he’d broken in and stabbed him. From “don’t fucking touch me” to “come here, I want to touch you” in a couple of months. Not bad.


	8. Koshka

“It’s disgusting, is what it is, and I’m telling Steve you tricked me into eating it.”

“It wasn’t a trick,” the soldier says, with his mouth full. “I’m eating it, too. I like it.”

“Yeah, just cause you’re used to eating gross shit doesn’t mean it’s good,” Sam says. “It just means your taste buds are brainwashed, too.”

“You can’t brainwash taste buds, bird.”

Sam opens the lid of a dumpster and drops the foil-wrapped food item inside. The soldier crumples up his empty foil and drops it in too, then Sam lets it fall closed with a bang.

As they turn to walk away, the soldier stops short. “What was that sound?”

“It was me tossing that greasy stink bomb in the trash where it belongs.”

“I heard something,” the soldier says, leaning close to the dumpster.

“Man, what the fuck are you doing?” Sam demands, as he lifts the lid to peer inside. “Bad Mittens! Get outta the trash!”

“Shut up and hold the lid.”

“Hold the—you are not going in there and getting back in my car!”

“Just do it. There’s something in here.”

Sam steps over and holds the lid, making a disgusted face, as the soldier hops onto the large, brown, city garbage receptacle and drops inside. After a moment, he climbs out again, holding his right arm gingerly across his chest.

“Well?” Sam demands, dusting his hands on his jeans. “You want to explain why you’re climbing into dumpsters like a damned raccoon?”

The soldier opens his jacket and carefully lifts out a small, grimy, grey thing.

“Is that a rat?” Sam says, horrified.

“No, bird, it’s a baby cat,” the soldier says. “I heard it make a noise when you dropped the lid.”

“Kinda looks like a rat.”

At that moment, the tiny, grey ball of fur opens its mouth and lets out a piteous, high-pitched mew.

“Tishe, koshka,” the soldier coos to it, stroking its dirt-streaked fur with the tip of his finger. “Ne bóysya.”

“Aw, would you look at that,” Sam laughs. “You got that mama-cat instinct, Mittens.”

“Shut up, bird,” the soldier glowers. He tucks the little thing carefully back into his coat, cradling it against his chest with one hand. “It’s going to freeze to death out here. I need to take it indoors.”

“Steve’s gonna love this. Now he’s got two stray cats to deal with.”

They continue toward Sam’s large, black SUV, but when they come to it, he keeps walking.

“You’re parked here,” the soldier calls to him.

“I know where I’m parked,” Sam rejoins. “I also know you don’t have shit to feed that cat, so come on. There’s a pet store a couple blocks down.”

The soldier trots to catch up with him and they walk the specified two blocks. On right side of the street, they find a shop with a large, mint-green sign that reads “Purrfectly Natural Pet Supply.” The woman at the counter greets them with rather excessive effusiveness and asks if she can help them find anything.

“I found this in the trash,” the soldier says, stepping up to the counter and opening his jacket. “I need the things to keep it alive.”

“Oh, my,” the woman laughs uneasily. “Ok…so, kittens of different ages need different things. Do you know how old she is?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see. If you don’t mind letting me take a look, I can tell you.”

The soldier eyes her warily, then draws out the kitten and holds it up for her inspection.

“Alright, well good news. She—or he, too young to tell at this age—looks about four weeks old, which means she can go to the bathroom on her own, and you can start her on wet food. I’d recommend taking a bottle and some formula at first, and weaning onto solid foods, since she’s so young. And she will _certainly_ need a bath, so you’ll want some kitten shampoo and a brush. I can show you the options we have in stock. Do you have a litter box?”

“No. No. I don’t want options,” the soldier says impatiently. “I just want…all the things.”

“Sorry about that, ma’am. He, uh…doesn’t get out much,” Sam cuts in. “If you could pick out whatever you think is best, we’d really appreciate it.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to,” the woman says brightly. “Let me guess, this is your first time as pet parents?”

“Yep, first time,” Sam grins. “We just want to be the best pet parents we can be, you know?”

“Well, you’re off to a good start.”

Sam continues to make polite chit-chat with her as she goes about gathering items. The soldier remains near the counter, cradling the kitten under his jacket, scowling suspiciously at the brightly-colored toy mice and rhinestone-encrusted pet collars. When she’s got together everything they need, the soldier pays her in cash, and he and Sam leave the shop in possession of two very full shopping bags, the business card of a local veterinarian, and detailed instructions on the use of their purchases. Back at the penthouse, they find Steve already home.

“Hey, guys,” Steve calls over his shoulder from the stove, where he is stirring some vegetables in a frying pan. He shuts off the gas and turns to smile at them. “How was group?”

“It was fine,” Sam says. “So, guess what. We’ve got news.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Oh? What is it?”

“Congratulations, Steve,” Sam grins, gesturing to the soldier. “Mittens is a mother.”

At that moment, a high-pitched mew sounds from within the soldier’s jacket. He reaches in and draws out the grungy little furball. It turns its wobbly head, blinking about as he holds it up in his hand, then it lets out another energetic squeak.

“A kitten?” Steve asks, bewildered. “Where did it come from?”

“Oh, I’m glad you asked,” Sam says. “Mittens climbed into a dumpster and came out with it wrapped up in his jacket. And I got to enjoy the smell the whole way back.”

“You climbed into a dumpster?”

“It couldn’t get out on its own,” the soldier says. “It would’ve died.”

Steve eyes the kitten apprehensively. “So…you want to take care of it tonight and then take it to a responsible shelter in the morning, right?”

The soldier stares at him blankly for a beat, then he picks up both bags from the pet shop and stalks down the hall with his mewing charge.

Steve sighs. “Sam, why’d you let him pick up a stray cat?”

“Let him?” Sam says dubiously. “You remember who this dude is, right? How do you think I’m gonna stop him from doing anything?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I guess I’ll have to explain to him about finding a shelter.”

“What if he wants to keep it?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. A pet is a lot of responsibility. I’m not sure he’s ready for that.”

“Steve…I try not to tell people how to take care of their business, but I know a lot about PTSD cases. That’s what I do when I’m not flying around catching your heavy ass. Mittens might be kinda fucked up in the head, but he’s a grown-ass man. Eventually, you’re gonna have to start treating him like one. Let him do some things on his own. Make his own choices and mistakes. If you don’t, it’s gonna be a lot harder for him to get better.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Sam, but I’m still responsible for him. And his mistakes tend to be the kind where people wind up dead.”

“Well, unless that kitten is a lot meaner than it looks, I don’t think this is gonna be one of those,” Sam laughs. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to deal with your boyfriend—”

“He’s not—we’re not…what are you talking about?”

“Shit, sorry. I forgot we were all still pretending we don’t know.”

“Pretending you don’t know what? And who’s we all?”

“Nothing, and no one. Forget I said that. I gotta get going, but I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Think about what I said, ok?”

“I…ok, I will,” Steve says. “Thanks, Sam. And thank you for looking out for Bucky. It means a lot to me.”

“No problem.”

Steve walks him to the door, then pauses to take a few breaths and center himself before he goes down the hall. He finds the bedroom door open, and the soldier standing at the bathroom counter across the room. Reflected in the mirror, Steve can see him holding the little ball of wet, grey fur. He is speaking to it in Russian, in a low, gentle tone, and carefully rubbing it dry with a hand towel. He pauses in the doorway and watches, captivated by this side of his friend he’s never seen, even before he was the stone-hard soldier. Suddenly aware that he is being observed, the soldier’s spine stiffens and he shuts his mouth. It costs Steve a deep pang to know that his presence drives up the defenses of the man he loves more than his own life, and for whose happiness he would sacrifice anything. He focuses on this, which corrects his internal course and calms his mind.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, approaching softly, so as not to startle the kitten. “How’s your little buddy?”

The soldier continues his ministrations to the tiny feline and doesn’t look up. “Wet. Have to keep it warm.”

Steve watches as he wraps the kitten carefully in a dry hand towel and lifts it up to cradle it against his chest. Then he turns around and looks Steve squarely in the face, as if expecting some challenge.

“Did you, uh…did you feed it yet?” Steve asks clumsily.

“No.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

The soldier’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“I’d just like to help. If you need me to. It’s ok if you want to take care of it by yourself.”

“This,” the soldier says stiffly, picking up a cylindrical tin and holding it out. “It’s dried nutritional formula for baby cats. It needs to be combined with heated water.”

“Sure,” Steve smiles, accepting the can. He turns it around and reads through the instructions on the back. “Ok, I can do this. Where’s the, uh…bottle?”

“In this bag. It has to be washed first. And the water has to be exactly one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Well, why don’t you bring your friend to the kitchen? Then you can keep it warm and supervise me so I don’t mess up the formula.”

The soldier nods and follows Steve back out to the kitchen. Cradling his little towel-encased kitten sausage, he monitors the situation closely, as Steve washes and rinses the bottle, pours filtered water into a sauce pan, heats it to the proper temperature, and stirs in the measured scoops of powder. He makes something of a mess pouring it into the small opening of the bottle, but the soldier seems to regard the venture as a marginal success, and accepts it.

Steve goes with him to sofa, where he sits and unwraps his kitten bundle. The kitten, now clean and mostly dry, is actually pretty cute. It’s some kind of tabby with alternating stripes of light and dark grey, and has a patch of white fuzz on its chin, as if it has been dipped into cream. The soldier takes the bottle in his cybernetic hand and holds it sideways and tilted down, allowing the kitten to come to it and latch on. Steve smiles at the delicate care with which he strokes its little face, and touches its throat with one finger every few seconds, to ensure it’s swallowing properly. It finishes the formula with impressive alacrity, and tries to follow the empty bottle on its wobbly legs, as the soldier takes it away and hands it to Steve.

“Nyet, koshka,” he says, in a gently scolding tone, lifting the kitten up to his face. “Don’t be a piglet. You’ll make yourself sick.”

The kitten responds with an indignant peep, which makes Steve laugh as he takes the bottle to the kitchen. The soldier sits slouched on the sofa with the kitten on his chest, chatting quietly to it, while Steve washes the bottle and sets it on the rack to dry. When he comes back and sits beside them, the soldier turns his head to accept a kiss. While their attention is thus engaged, the tiny interloper climbs up and launches a full scale assault on his long hair, making him laugh into the kiss. Steve laughs too, then his heart wrenches so painfully, he is helpless to check the tears that flood his eyes. This is the first time he has heard the soldier laugh. The first time his friend has laughed since they found each other again. Possibly the first time since the day he fell, seven decades ago.

He is looking at him with his brow furrowed anxiously. “Steve? Why are you sad? What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, shaking his head. “It was nothing you did, Buck. This just…happens sometimes.”

“It happens all the time, and it’s always something I did.”

“Well, it’s nothing that’s your fault.”

Steve lays a hand on his cheek and rests his forehead against his. The kitten pushes its tiny muzzle up between their faces and lets out a long, piercing mew, which makes Steve laugh again.

“You little demon,” he says, stroking the top of its head with a fingertip, which the kitten immediately attempts to capture. “Hey, what’s its name? The thing you’ve been calling it?”

“Koshka,” the soldier says.

“That’s nice. What does it mean?”

“Cat.”

“You’re just calling it cat?”

“Yes. It’s a cat.”

“Your father isn’t very imaginative, Koshka,” Steve intimates to the kitten.

The kitten takes this in stride, appearing unconcerned with its term of address and instead, deeply interested in attempting to wedge itself snugly beneath said parental figure’s chin. When this endeavor meets with wild success, the triumphant feline celebrates by promptly falling fast asleep. If it is aware that it is curled up between the chin and collarbone of a man so deadly, he has been legally designated a weapon of mass destruction by the United Nations, the kitten makes no indication, though this fact does provide a healthy amount of amusement for Steve. He fails, however, to draw the rather obvious comparison between himself and the kitten, as he drifts blithely off to sleep with his head on the human WMD’s shoulder.


	9. Sergeant Barnes

At around noon one day, Koshka’s human is reclining in one of the large bathtubs in their home. His human’s mate is away doing something involving mystical entities called gifted schoolchildren, and Koshka is perched demurely upon the rim of the tub, observing his human’s strange bath ritual, with resigned dismay at his apparent contentment to be submerged in water. Once, or perhaps twice, Koshka could have excused as error, but his human has persisted in this behavior. In fact, he has intentionally immersed his body in said water so often and for such extended periods of time, that his sanity might reasonably be called into question. On several occasions, Koshka has sought to instruct his human against repeating this error, by way of energetic verbal remonstrance and placing himself generally in the way. Alas, the human paid no heed—simply murmuring some gentle admonishment against falling in and getting his fur all wet, and setting him on the floor. Since there is apparently no preventing it, Koshka has no recourse but to supervise his human carefully when the aquatic madness is on him, to ensure no serious harm comes of his folly.

He is in the act of dipping his tail cautiously into the water, to verify that the temperature is still within acceptable limits, when he is startled by a chime and a greeting from the strange voice that speaks sometimes in their home. It is a male voice (from what Koshka can extrapolate from his limited experience of human voices) and it is smooth and not entirely unpleasant. The problem is that it appears at wildly unpredictable intervals, and originates from no source Koshka can discern with satisfactory certainty. Were he a more superstitious cat, he might be tempted to attribute its sudden interjections to something of a supernatural bent. He is, however, a cat of reason and science, fully alive to the fact that all phenomena, no matter how strange, must proceed from some natural cause.

Investigating this interloping voice and its source has been on his agenda of household situations to manage for some time. But since he has, as yet, made no progress toward discovering the origination point of the intrusive vocalizations, and since it does not appear to greatly disturb the domestic tranquility of his human and his human’s mate (another male which, if the uninstructed human ever wishes to produce a litter of his own, is an issue Koshka must address with him at some future date), he lets it pass for the moment, returning his solicitude to the temperature of the bath.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” the voice is saying. “Pardon the intrusion, but do you have a moment?”

Aha! It is aware that it is intruding! You foolish voice, you will be the architect of your own undoing with these cavalier admissions of guilt!

“Sure, building,” the soldier replies nonchalantly, not lifting his head from the back of the tub. “What’s up?”

There is a pause, as if the voice is hesitating to open its topic. “I have a message for you, sir. From Mr. Stark.”

“Well?” the soldier prompts.

“He requests the pleasure of your presence at his office. Today at one o’clock, if it is convenient to you. May I…tell him you will be available to meet with him at that time?”

“Yes,” the soldier says simply, still not moving from his comfortable position.

“Ah, excellent,” the voice says, sounding almost surprised. “I will let him know to expect you. Thank you, Sergeant Barnes.”

The soldier offers no further reply, and after a few seconds, the chime sounds, indicating that the interchange has ended. He lifts both his human hand and his metal hand from the water and passes them over his eyes and then his brow, pressing his temples for a moment before he lets them drop back into the water.

Koshka watches him surreptitiously through half-lidded eyes. Whatever the voice has said, it has certainly disturbed his human this time. His muscles are tense beneath his pink, furless hide, as he rises and steps out of the bath, and his face bears a hard expression. Ten times harder than it bears even in his most scolding moods, when he sternly bids Koshka remove his person from the kitchen counter, or desist from sharpening his claws on the roll of paper beside the small, water-filled chair in the bathroom. Discovering the purpose for which they keep this roll of paper, if it is not to sharpen one’s claws (at the exact height for such an activity to be convenient, no less), is another agenda item upon which Koshka is diligently working.

Not being possessed of much experience in the nuances of human-voice relations, Koshka can only surmise that his human is angry with the voice and thus, Koshka is angry with the voice. The human is preparing himself to leave the home, now, too. Perhaps he is going to find the source of the voice and quarrel with it, possibly even demand that it cease its intrusions. This idea pleases his attentive feline adherent very much. If his human will only employ his fierce eyes to their best effect and growl, as he sometimes growls at his mate, the voice will certainly be cowed into submission and will have no choice but to give up annoying them. Not that the human’s mate ever seems to be particularly cowed by his growling, but Koshka attributes this fact to simplicity of nature and a touch of rather canine stupidity on his part. He would like to see anyone else attempt to hold ground against his human, who he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt to be the most fearless, formidable, and powerful of all humans.

He almost regrets that he will not be present to see his human do battle with the voice, as he will certainly emerge victorious, having trod his enemy underfoot and brought even higher honor to the household. But alas, he knows he must remain behind to keep watch over the home front, since he is subject to strict injunctions against use of the Front Door. Thus hampered by legal red tape, he can only demonstrate his support and thorough confidence in his human’s supremacy by headbutting his shins and purring loudly, as he makes ready to depart. He is rewarded with a scratch on the head and an affectionate caress, then his human sets forth to face their mutual foe. His mind ablaze with the magnificent prospect of the approaching battle, Koshka takes up his post in a sunbeam and curls into a ball for a glorious nap.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Mr. Stark says, holding out his hand.

The soldier takes it and shakes it, as he has been instructed to do when people make this gesture, but he says nothing in response. Mr. Stark arranges himself in a chair behind his desk, indicating that the soldier should sit in the chair across the desk. The soldier sits and waits, looking frankly into Mr. Stark’s face. He has found that his open scrutiny causes most people to become extremely uneasy, if not palpably afraid. Mr. Stark, however, does not appear to be the least bit discomposed by his guest’s stony silence and almost fierce expression, and returns his gaze with practiced ease. That he is a man who is aware of his position and is accustomed to having his own way, is quite evident. But there is something lurking beneath this veneer of cool insouciance. Something dangerous.

Emotional chaos emanates from the man like a reeking fume. He has suffered. His pain has made him angry. His anger has fed upon itself in his mind and has grown into a thing so much larger than himself, that he has come to believe in it almost as a religion. And in himself as the one true arbiter of righteousness. His substantial successes in this arena have only served to further convince him that he is right. However, though his power and volatility certainly make him dangerous, the soldier is not afraid of him. In fact, he has no capacity left with which to feel anything akin to fear in relation to powerful men such as this. Mr. Stark senses this and it rankles, but he conceals it admirably, sitting and studying the face of his opponent with a blasé smirk.

“So, Sergeant Barnes,” he begins, in a flippant tone. “You mind if I call you Sergeant Barnes?”

The soldier stares at him.

“How long have you and Captain Rogers been staying here, now? I think…seven months?”

The soldier continues to stare at him.

“Doesn’t matter. I know it’s seven months because I asked Jarvis,” Mr. Stark continues, undisturbed. “I should apologize for not introducing myself sooner, but, uh…kinda hard to get acquainted with the freezer pop around. He’s always flexing his muscles at me. You understand.”

“I know you know,” the soldier says, not breaking his gaze.

Mr. Stark’s expression flickers. “Right to the point, huh? Ok, let’s do this. You killed my parents.”

The soldier makes no reply, but neither does he look away. They are both aware of the absolute truth of the thing. There is no need to verbally confirm it.

“Tell me,” Mr. Stark says, laying his palms flat on the desk. His voice wavers slightly and he clears his throat. “Tell me about the night you murdered my mom and dad.”

“No.”

Mr. Stark sits for a moment, blinking, as if he doesn’t comprehend this answer. “Excuse me?” 

“No,” the soldier repeats.

Mr. Stark leans forward, his dark eyes black with anger. “Listen to me, Sergeant Barnes or Winter Soldier or whatever the fuck you are. The only reason you’re still breathing the free air is because you’re here, in my custody. Because I allow it. For now. The UN and the entire world may have decided you’re not legally culpable for your actions, but that doesn’t make you any less of a murderer.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad we agree on something,” Mr. Stark says leaning back again. “Namely, that you are a murderer. You murdered my mother and father. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” the soldier says, in the same blank, impassive tone.

“So that part of your brain isn’t malfunctioning, then. You ran their car off the road. You crushed my father’s skull. You strangled my mother. You remember all of that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we have all the facts in order. I want you to tell me one thing.” Mr. Stark’s voice is hoarse and taking on an edge of ferocity. “Why. Why them.”

The soldier’s brow furrows. He had assumed Stark was fully aware of the objective of the mission, but evidently whatever information they gathered or squeezed out of Yukashev hadn’t included this crucial detail.

“Why?” Mr. Stark demands again, slamming his fist down on the desk. “I want to know why in the name of Christ your Hydra masters sent you to slaughter them! Two innocent people! Like dogs in the street! Good old fashioned terrorism? Was there even a reason?”

“It was Steve.”

This seems to give Mr. Stark momentary pause, but does not diffuse his wrath. “What the fuck do you mean? What does Steve have to do with any of this?”

“Mission objective,” the soldier says, gazing into the middle-distance and falling into his rote, mechanical cadence. “Secure all remaining doses of Erskine formulation. Eliminate priority target and any potential witnesses. Proceed to extraction point.”

“Bullshit,” Mr. Stark says uncertainly. Then he recovers and resumes his strident tone. “Bullshit. There was only one dose and they used it on Rogers. Right before Hydra blew up the lab and killed Erskine.”

“Incorrect. In addition to the dose used on Captain Rogers, there were six more made by Erskine. My mission was to retrieve the five remaining doses, believed to be in Howard Stark’s possession.”

“Five?”

The soldier looks at him patiently.

“I see. So, Steve’s Captain America, you’re Captain USSR. What happened to the five you took from my father?”

“Hydra used them.”

This answers hits home. Mr. Stark’s face loses a bit of color. “Are you telling me Hydra has five more…things like you?”

Index found: Dull, cracking thuds. Fists as heavy as sledgehammers, pounding into torn and beaten flesh. Sharp ring of titanium and steel colliding with iron bars. Scrape of boots on concrete. Acrid tang of sweat and blood.

“Worse than me. But they were never used. They were placed in cryostasis in a secure location in Siberia, shortly after they received the formulation.”

“Why? Why hasn’t Hydra used them?”

Index found: Tendons tearing. Arms wrenched nearly out of their sockets and pinned behind him. Face ground into the gritty concrete floor. Knee on his back crushing the breath from his lungs. Lightning-bolt shocks of ribs snapping.

“Because they weren’t like me. I was manageable. Compliant. They were not. The method Hydra used to control me didn’t work on them for long enough. I was strong, well trained, but when they realized they could overpower me, they rebelled. They slaughtered all the medical personnel and half a regiment of Spetsnaz enforcers before they could be subdued and returned to the cryo chambers. Hydra kept them on ice as a last resort, in case they ever needed to drop a human nuclear bomb on some unsuspecting country. I was the only Winter Soldier still in service.”

“Was?” Points for astuteness, Stark.

“When we confronted Yukashev, he had one of them with him. Josef. Yukashev said he’d found a way to keep us permanently compliant.”

“How do you know he was telling the truth?”

“He believed I was activated.”

“Activated?”

Index found: Bound, blinded, veins on fire, teeth cracking, chest splitting, muscles seizing so hard they dislocate limbs.

“In a compliant condition. He was…taunting me with it. But Josef being with him is proof enough. Hydra never would have allowed one of them to be removed from cryo without absolute certainty he could be controlled.”

“Where is this Josef now? Tell me one of those things is not running loose in DC somewhere.”

“He tried to kill Steve. I shot him in the head.”

For the briefest instant, Mr. Stark’s expression appears to change ever so slightly, but he turns away begins to pace to and fro behind his desk. The soldier stares past him at nothing.

“So, there are four of these things left,” Mr. Stark says, turning back to him. “And we don’t know where they are.”

“No.”

“Perfect.”

“But I know where to start looking.”

He sits down again, rolling and tapping his pen on his desk. “Ok. Ok. Let’s say you’re right. How do we deal with them once we’ve found them? You destroyed half of Washington DC and almost killed Captain America all by yourself. How do our people handle four more of you?”

“They don’t. I do.”

“No,” Mr. Stark says, shaking his head. “No. You’re a liability and frankly, I don’t trust you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Uh…no the fuck I don’t. You murdered my parents, Manchurian candidate, and for all I know, you could go all hail-Hydra at any moment and start slaughtering innocent people again.”

“I know what you did for me, with the UN and the US government.”

“Give me a break,” Stark snorts. “I didn’t do shit for you. I may have all the money, but Rogers is the boss around here. Don’t think for a second that if he wasn’t in your corner—”

“I know you did. And I know why. They sent me after Howard Stark because they knew I could get close, if I needed to. Because he would see this face and trust me. Because I was—Sergeant Barnes was his friend.”

Mr. Stark’s jaw tenses. “And what did that friendship get him?”

“I killed him.”

“And my mother.”

“I had no choice.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. Studley Do-right has only told me about six million times.”

“It’s the truth and you know it. That’s why we’re even having this conversation. Because you know I have a choice now, and you know what I’ll choose.”

“You expect me to believe that just because you got away from Hydra, that somehow makes you magically loyal to us?”

“I’m not loyal to you. I don’t give a shit about you. I’m loyal to Steve.”

Mr. Stark’s posture relaxes somewhat. “Well…that I do believe. It’s nice to get a straight answer out of you.”

“I never hid anything. You never asked.”

“Yeah, that’s cute, but sins of omission still—”

“You’re right,” the soldier cuts him off. “I didn’t seek you out to remind you how I took the two people who mattered most to you in your entire life away from you. To tell you that I killed them with my own hands, just like I killed hundreds of other people, and I didn’t care who they were. They were check marks to me. Objectives on a list. Not forcing my guilt on you, not making you look at my face knowing what I did to you, that’s not a sin of omission, Stark. That’s basic human decency. And like you said, I’ve been here seven months. If you wanted to talk to me you could’ve made that happen any time. You chose not to. I’m not responsible for your actions.”

“That’s funny, because you also want me to believe you’re not responsible for yours. You keep saying you had no choice. But there’s always a choice.”

“Spoken like a man who never had his taken away.”

“You don’t get to pull that brainwashed puppet shit with me, Venom Snake, I was held hostage, too. I was tortured, too. Don’t act like I don’t—is that funny to you, Sergeant Barnes?”

“You think I did what I did because they tortured me? You think I chose to kill people for them because they threatened my life?” The soldier leans forward and grips the edge of Mr. Stark’s desk with his metal hand. “They didn’t want anything when they tortured me. They didn’t have to threaten my life. James Barnes begged them to kill him. Begged to be _allowed_ to die. You know what they did? They fucking killed him. They destroyed his mind and turned his body into a machine that responds to commands. You say I’m breathing free air because of you and Steve and maybe it looks like I am, but deep down, I am never sure whether I’m making a choice, or obeying a directive. So no, I’m not a free man, Stark. I’m not even human anymore. If you want to kill this body, go ahead. Take your best shot. The man it belonged to—your father’s friend—he’s been dead for seventy years. I just have his memories banging around in my skull, reminding me of everything I’m not.”

Mr. Stark leans back in his chair and is silent for a long moment. He has stopped fidgeting and playing with pens and appears to be deep in contemplation.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” he sighs. “I had a whole ‘you’re not even human anymore’ speech I was gonna give you but you stepped on a lot of my points, so…kinda feels like trodden ground.”

The soldier stares at him.

“Steve, uh…he insists you’re still his friend Bucky from the Howling Commandos. Keeps saying ‘he’s in there somewhere, I just know it.’ I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“You think he’s wrong.”

“Yes. I do.” Mr. Stark leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers thoughtfully. “But I also think it doesn’t matter. Seven decades later, after a couple wars and the Reagan era, his pal Bucky wouldn’t be the kid he knew back then, anyway. Whether Hydra mindfucked him or not. Even if he recovered all his memory, he’d be a different man now. That’s called life.”

The soldier’s stone-faced composure falters and he looks down at the desk top, his eyes stinging with suppressed emotion. Mr. Stark politely pretends not to notice.

“You know…I know you had no choice,” he says. “I’ve been over every file, every photograph, every millimeter of audio and video recording—every scrap of information about you in existence. I’ve seen your medical records, brain scans…I know exactly what they did to you. I know that when you did what you did, you did not have the capacity to make decisions on your own.”

The soldier keeps his eyes fixed on the desk. 

“I wasn’t sure you knew it, though. Not till just now.”

There is a heavy, lingering silence. The soldier looks up at him again.

“So…you called me in here to force me to relive your parents’ deaths, but also to make sure I knew that what I did when I was a brainwashed killing machine wasn’t my choice.”

Mr. Stark shrugs. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Turns out finding out you weren’t responsible didn’t make it better. My parents are still dead. You still killed them. Kinda wanted to hash it out. Yell at you. Maybe punch you a couple times…hadn’t exactly thought that part through.”

The soldier almost smiles. “You want to put on the suit, take a few swings at me, be my guest. I understand that.”

“Ha. No, thanks. Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but my liability insurance premiums are already astronomical. Plus I…kind of promised the DOJ you wouldn’t be involved in causing any major destruction on US soil for at least twelve months.”

“The destruction I caused in DC wasn’t that major,” the soldier says, crossing his arms. “Most of it was wreckage from the helicarriers captain onesie blew up. Wreckage I pulled him out of and dragged his heavy ass to safety.”

Stark raises his eyebrows. “Throwing captain onesie—which I will be using by the way—under the bus for the DC thing, huh? Isn’t he your boyfriend?”

“Yes. That doesn’t mean I condone his blue tights or blissful lack of anything approaching rational forethought.”

“Alright,” Stark says, rising abruptly from his chair. “I’m trying to keep hating you and you’re starting to make that kind of difficult. So. Get out of my office.”

The soldier gets up and turns to depart.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Mr. Stark calls after him, just as he reaches the door. “I’ve been recently made aware of a…potentially developing situation, involving some frozen Hydra assets. We could probably use your expertise. If you’re available.”

The soldier stands perfectly still, not even turning back to look at him.

“Right, well, please try to contain your enthusiasm, it’s getting embarrassing. Jarvis will call you to set up a pre-op briefing.”

The soldier pauses for another split second, then exits the room without a word, leaving the door swinging shut behind him.

“Jarvis,” Mr. Stark says, after he has gone.

“How may I be of service, Mr. Stark,” the pleasant AI voice answers.

“Pull up everything you have on possible Hydra presence in Siberia. And get Sergeant Barnes clearance to lead an overseas op.”

“It will be my pleasure, sir.”

“And stop sounding so fucking smug about it.”

“Of course, sir.”


	10. Come Home

Late in the evening, the same day the soldier and Mr. Stark had their confrontation, unbeknownst to Steve, a car takes Steve directly from Stark’s private hangar at the airport to their massive Stark Tower residence. After a full and rather exhausting week spent out of town visiting with students in programs for gifted children, doing photo ops with principals and teachers, and filming a series of public service announcements for the schools, he is relieved to be coming home. The final shoot ran longer than expected and he had texted the soldier explaining he would be late. He received an enigmatic ‘ok’ in response. This being his usual mode of communication however, Steve is not disturbed by it.

They have passed more than half a year living together this way, and have made encouraging progress as far as his general stability, but the soldier seems no closer to recovering his memory than when they began. A neurologist (one of several specialists Stark has sent to evaluate the soldier) had explained to Steve that things like memory recovery are hard to quantify, and the best thing he can do for his partner is treat him as normally as possible, and not give up hope. As if giving up hope for the man he loves were a thing conceivable for him.

Steve has come to accept, however, that even if Bucky were to fully recover his memory, the Winter Soldier is never going away. His friend spent many more years as the soldier than he did as Bucky Barnes, and this is simply who he is, now. These new things are all part of who Bucky has become. Including the soldier’s penchant for playing with combat knives in polite company, and habit of waking up screaming with no idea where he is, until Steve holds him and talks him down for a while. 

As far as communicating what is going on in his head, he remains guarded and recalcitrant, but what he allows to show of his personality and self is very much the same. In fact, there is so much about the soldier that is so inherently Bucky, that at times, Steve is almost tempted to believe his memory has been coming back and he hasn’t been telling him. These flights of fancy are most often promptly grounded, however, when he makes reference to some event or thing Bucky would remember, and receives a blank, green-eyed stare in response.

Hope for his friend no longer means what it had meant to him a few months ago, though, when he had naively assumed that recovery of his memory would somehow restore him to the state of mind in which he had been before Hydra took him. Hope for Bucky now means hope for his happiness, acceptance of himself, and for the healing of the horrific wounds inflicted upon him during decades of isolation and torment. So, Steve waits and hopes. And for now, he is happy to simply love him and be loved by him. Of course, the soldier has never verbally stated his feelings, one way or another. The idea of such a sentiment crossing his lips almost makes Steve laugh aloud. But he doesn’t need to hear the words to know the heart of the man he has made the study of his life since his childhood. In unguarded moments, he has seen in those green eyes an intense and eager adoration that has nearly brought him to his knees, and of which he feels utterly unworthy.

Despite his certainty that his love is returned, there is one thing that troubles Steve, though he is ashamed to admit it. They live together, sleep in the same bed, and have sex basically every chance they get, but they have made no official commitment to one another or concrete plans for a future together. He can foresee no future in which they are _not_ together, but he’d always wanted the vows and rings and anniversaries. He has always been a traditional kind of romantic that way. Maybe not totally traditional, he supposes, since he wants to have all those things with another man, but no one seems to care very much about that these days. If they do, they have wisely kept their mouths shut about it around Captain America and his genetically and cybernetically enhanced, notoriously trigger-happy ex-terrorist boyfriend (which he’s not even sure he can call him, since they have never talked about it).

For a long time, none of his plans for the future have been predicated in his mind by the condition, ‘if Bucky recovers his memory.’ He wants vows and rings and anniversaries with the soldier, as he is now. He loves him just as much as he ever did—more, if it’s possible—and he loves him just the way he is. The brash, charismatic Army sergeant with a sniper’s eye and a film star’s smile, and the brooding, knife-flipping assassin, who argues with the cat in Russian and submerges himself in ice-cold baths. Bucky is all of these things and so much more. He is the love of his life and the man he’s going to marry.

He has yet to decide upon the right time and the right way to bring it up, but he will marry him. Whether the soldier comes peacefully, or Steve has to tie him up and carry him to the courthouse over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Which he might enjoy, come to think of it. He has been introducing some interesting kinks into their repertoire lately. Kinks, which Steve now knows they are called, after a worryingly helpful Google search. The internet is a frightening place.

The elevator reaches their floor at long last, and he goes inside and drops his bag on the bed, atop which Koshka immediately spreads himself out, purring triumphantly. The soldier is rarely visible the moment Steve walks in the door, usually preferring to wait and greet him from one of his favorite spots about the penthouse, but he doesn't appear to be in the place at all. Not finding him in either of the bathtubs or perched near one of the windows, or stretched out on the floor in front of the sofa, Steve heads up to the roof, where he can usually be found if his other haunts are deserted. Steve often comes to sit with him and draw in his book, but the soldier only ever stands still and silent, gazing out over the city. Steve spots him on the far north end of the rooftop patio, leaning on the railing, doing precisely that.

“Hey, Buck.”

“Hey,” the soldier says, not turning around. “You just get home?”

“Yeah. You?”

“No. Bird man dropped me off after training.”

Steve detects something off about his voice. A hint of hoarseness, like he’s strained it, or is becoming ill. Probably not the latter, since they can’t get sick. Or something might be wrong. It could be emotion-related hoarseness. Silence works best with the soldier, who won’t talk about anything till he’s good and goddamned ready, so Steve steps up beside him and looks out over the railing too, giving him space to talk if he wants to. Several minutes pass without a word, then Steve decides he’d better leave him alone for now.

“I’m gonna order some food and take a shower,” he says, turning to go. “Let me know if you want anything.”

“Wait. There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “What’s up?”

The soldier pauses for a beat, as if hesitating. “Do you…remember your first kiss?”

“Yeah,” Steve smirks. “It was Carla Gianni at the spring dance. She slapped me.”

“I don’t mean the one you tell people about,” the soldier says, still gazing out over the sea of city lights. “I mean your actual first kiss.”

“What are you—” Steve begins, then his heart stops beating in his chest. He stares breathlessly at his friend, not daring to speak or even move.

The soldier glances at him, then away. “It was the summer between your junior and senior years. Your best friend, this idiot kid from the neighborhood, got an old motorcycle and you helped him fix it up. One night, he took you out for a ride. The two of you stopped at an overlook to see the view. You were talking about the war and how you were gonna do your part and join up as soon as you could. You were so determined and fearless, and hell-bent on doing the right thing, even if it meant sacrificing yourself for what you believed in. You were amazing. And your idiot friend, he, uh…he grabbed you and kissed you.”

Tears blur Steve’s vision and he has to steady himself on the railing. “Buck…”

“You pretended it was a joke, so he did too.” The soldier’s voice wavers and he clears his throat before he begins again. “See, your idiot friend didn’t know how to tell you he was so in love with you it hurt to breathe sometimes. He didn’t tell you how you broke his heart that night, and the only reason he didn’t drive his bike off the cliff was because he swore he’d always be there for you. He didn’t tell you how he joined the Army because he wanted to prove to you he could be a good enough man to deserve you, and he didn’t tell you how every day he spent without you was the worst day of his life, and every day he spent with you was the best. Even the last one.”

“I was the idiot,” Steve says through his tears. “I was afraid to admit I loved him, and then it was too late. I let him down. I let him down over and over again. But if…if he could forgive me, and give me another chance—”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I was proud to call you my friend, and to fight and die by your side.”

No longer able to restrain himself, Steve throws his arms around him and pulls him into a breathless kiss, holding him tightly and pressing their bodies together as if even a molecule of space between them is too much. When at long last, they break the kiss, they remain entwined, eyes closed and foreheads resting against each other.

“I’ll make it up to you, Buck,” Steve whispers. “Every day we spent apart. I’ll make them all up to you, I swear.”

“That’s a lot of days, Steve. You sure we have that long left?”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore. But I’ll keep trying as long as I live. Just promise you’ll never leave me again.”

The soldier looks up at him fiercely. “Never. You know even death can’t even keep me away from you. It has tried.”

“Well, if it tries again, I’ll kick its ass.”

“Steve…I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Steve says, drawing him close to press another kiss to his lips. “I love you so much, you have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, good, cause we’re getting married.”

The soldier blinks. “Who’s—what?”

“You and me. We’re getting married,” Steve chirps. “Nothing fancy. Courthouse ceremony, reception here at the tower. You won’t even have to wear a suit.”

“I don’t…have a suit. Why do you want to get married?”

“We’ve been living in sin, Buck. What will people say?”

“They’ll say Captain America has lost his fucking mind, is what they’ll say, Steve! You can’t marry a known murderer and terrorist—you’re aware I’m a weapon of mass destruction, right? The United Nations passed a resolution about _me_. The public will collectively shit itself.”

Steve crosses his arms and plants himself. “The hell I can’t. I’m gonna marry you even harder now, just to spite them.”

“I haven’t agreed to any of this. You can’t just make me—”

“Marry me, Buck. I’m serious. Be my husband.”

The soldier grasps the railing with both hands, taking deep, panicked breaths. “I—I think…I’m gonna puke.”

“Ok, but don’t, though.”

“I just…I need a minute to…hyperventilate.”

“But you’ll marry me, right?”

“Yes. Yes. Just—shut up for a second.”

“You’re not really gonna puke, are you?”

“No. I’m trying to remember why I love you.”

“Well, you already said yes,” Steve says, pulling him into his arms again. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to call no takesies-backsies.”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Yeah, you keep saying.”

“I have so many knives, Steve.”

“I know you do. I keep finding them stuck into the walls.”

“I thought you liked when I left notes.”

“I like notes like ‘went to get coffee’ not ‘this is a knife’.”

“That was funny in context.”

“What was the context?”

“Bird man made me watch Crocodile Dundee.”

“Oh. That’s actually pretty funny. Are you ever going to call him Falcon?”

“No.”

“Sam?”

“No.”

“Is this about the Mittens?”

“Everything is about the Mittens, Steve. Everything.”

The sky hangs dark and heavy, above a bleak and barren waste. A land swept white with snow, where mountains cut like icy teeth into the horizon. Here the weary soldier wanders, silent and alone. Before him, the chasm splits the earth from east to west. Amidst the jewel-red stars, a white star burns, clear and bright. The beauty of it pierces his heart.

He lowers his eyes to look out across the chasm, to find the figure on the other side, the deep blue shadow amid the whirling white. The figure stretches out its hand. Before the soldier’s feet now lies a bridge of rope and planks, that twists and sways in the wailing winds.

The sight of it fills him with black, unreasoning terror. The cold sinks deep into his body, freezes his lungs and dulls his mind. But above the howling of the storm a voice calls out to him.

_Come back to me. Come back to me. Come home._

With the final effort of his failing will, he lifts his foot and steps onto the bridge. Overhead, the star grows larger and brighter, expanding to eclipse all the others, swallowing the mountains and the snow and the deep, black sky, until nothing else remains. Only the white star and the man in blue, reaching out to take his hand.


End file.
